


A Christmas Detective

by wingsfromthewater



Category: A Christmas Prince (2017), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aldovia, Don't Worry About It, LITERALLY, M/M, Where is that?, boy meets boy, christmas is all around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsfromthewater/pseuds/wingsfromthewater
Summary: When John finds himself alone at Christmas in the beautiful country of Aldovia, he never thought he would actually meet a handsome prince who would change his life.I accidentally watched all of Sherlock and then the Christmas Prince and my brain did this thing.  I feel like I should apologize but I WILL NOT!  Anyways, it's just a little falling in love at Christmas fun with our favorite boys and I feel like we could all use a little of that right now.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	1. A Christmas Riding Crop

“You’re lost.” It was a statement, not a question and it came from the man who was beating what appeared to be an entire side of pork with a riding crop. He hadn’t turned around, but he seemed to be too well dressed to be staff and why would a staff member be tenderizing meat with a riding crop? “You could have kept up with the tour group, even with your limp. Fancied a look below stairs, I take it?”

“Sorry to bother you,” said John. “I’ll just go.”

“Not at all,” said the man, turning. And, yep. That was the Prince of Aldovia. John recognized him from his large painting in the portrait gallery. There was no mistaking him for anyone else. Nobody else could possibly have that remarkable combination of height cheekbones and wildly unruly hair. Though the portrait artist had toned down the hair and given the painting a blandly pleasant expression which was miles away from the analytical scowl the prince was currently levelling at him.

Shit. John had just walked in on the Prince doing something odd to a large chunk of a dead animal. Because of course he had. 

“Can I borrow your phone?”

“Sorry?”

“Your phone.”

John tilted his head, confused. “Aren’t princes allowed phones?”

“Technically, yes. But Palace PR has confiscated mine again. They seem to think that tweeting about the kings crash diets and resulting mood swings is unseemly.”

John lips twisted into a small smile. “Here,” he said, reaching into his pocket and handing over his phone.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” asked the Prince as he typed a message so quickly, his thumbs practically blurred.

“Sorry?” asked John again, realizing that was the third time he’d said that in the last thirty seconds.

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan, actually. Sorry,” John cringed. “How did you know that?”

“I don’t know, I see. Your haircut, he way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned but not tanned above the wrists. So, you were abroad but not sunbathing. Your limps really bad when you walk but you haven’t asked for a chair and you stand like you’ve forgotten about it. Your therapist thinks it’s psychosomatic, quite rightly I’m afraid. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntanned. Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“You said I’ve got a therapist.”

“You’ve a psychosomatic limp. Of course, you’ve got a therapist. Then there’s your brother. Your phone is expensive, a new model. Scratches. Not one, but many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins, but you keep it in your back pocket where there’s nothing to cause these scratches. A gift then. The next bits easy, you know it already.”

“The engraving.”

“Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father. Could be a cousin but you’re a war hero who’s spending his first Christmas home alone in a foreign country. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to. So, brother it is. Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. This model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble. Only six months old, he’s just giving it away. If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you. That says he wants you to stay in touch. And he just gave you this trip rather than try to get a refund which you took him up on, so you didn’t have to spend the holidays with him. That says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

“How can you possibly know about the drinking?”

“Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection, tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone, never see a drunks without them.”

“That… was brilliant.”

“You think so?” John caught a pleased expression on Sherlocks face before he turned away.

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.”

“That not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Well, nothing usually because they’re not allowed to say the thing they’d like to say.”

“And what’s that?”

“Piss off.”

The Prince stared a John for a moment with a deadpan expression. Then John’s face split into a grin and the Prince grinned back at him, ducking his head like he was embarrassed.

The Prince took a step closer to John, holding out his phone to him but not yet giving it back. “Come to dinner with me,” he said, his deep voice resonating in John’s chest.

“Why?” John asked without thinking. There was probably protocol for royal interactions like this that John was certainly in the process of cocking up but having the prince this close was very distracting. It wasn’t even entirely the way he looked, which appeared to be entirely designed to be eye catching. It was more that having this man’s entire attention and intellect focused on him was exhilarating. Like seeing some force of natural destruction, a bolt of lightning or the wave of a tsunami, that is so arresting that you can’t look away.

The prince handed John his phone. “You’re alone in a foreign country and the family is hosting an informal gathering tonight. They are dreadfully dull, but I imagine better than the hotel room service you plan to order tonight.” He was moving around the large kitchen now, pulling on a long, black coat and wrapping a blue scarf, that seemed to have been handpicked to bring out his eyes, around his neck.

“How do you know I’m here alone?” John asked.

The prince came to stand directly in front of him again, even closer than before. He put a hand on John’s shoulder. John looked up because the Prince was standing close enough that John had to look up to see his face.

“Lint,” said the Prince. He had a very large piece of white, fluffy lint, pinched between his leather gloved fingers. “This is clearly from the robes at the ski lodge up the mountain. You had your coat hanging in the same closet. If you were with someone, they would have noticed it and picked it off. If you’d have planned this trip, you would have stayed in the village. Much more convenient and you wouldn’t think yourself up for skiing, though you would be. Your brother and his wife planned this trip but when their marriage fell apart, your brother gave you his ticket. And you, having been in the army for the past few years, had no one to ask to come with you.”

“Amazing.”

“Do you know you do that out loud?”

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” said Sherlock, looking down again and breaking his intense eye contact. “So, dinner?”

“Sure,” said John. “Dinner.”

A light came into the Prince’s eyes and a small grin flitted across his face. “Seven o’clock then,” he said, moving towards the door again. “Just meet me here.”

“Wait,” said John, turning towards him. “What am I supposed to do? Just ring the bell and say I’m here to see the Prince?”

Sherlock was already out the door, but he leaned back in to the room. “Just asked for Sherlock,” he said. And then he was gone in a swirl of black coat.


	2. A Christmas Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You knew it was coming! There's been murder! The game is on!

The winding approach to the castle at night was even more stunning than during the day. Every surface was covered in lights so that the white stone walls seemed to be glowing. It should have been tacky but it was charming in its way. John wondered if he would meet any of the rest of the royal family. He couldn’t imagine what sort of family could have produced a man like Sherlock. Were they all brilliant and eccentric or were they all mundane and normal as though Sherlock had taken everything interesting and kept it to himself?

John pulled at his tie and the cuffs of his jacket. He hoped he wouldn’t stick out too much from what was likely to be a very posh crowd. He was glad he’d brought the suit with him. Part of Harry’s trip had included a reservation at a very fancy restaurant that couldn’t be canceled. But the suit was at least five years out of date, certainly from before his army years. Well, the worst thing that could happen would be getting thrown out and he wouldn’t be any worse off than he was and he’d get a good story out of it. 

The cab pulled up into the snowy, circular drive. It hadn’t snowed in the two days that he’d been in Aldovia. Why was there still snow on the royal drive? He opened the door and stepped out of the car, putting his foot, in his nicest pair of shoes, in a pile of slush. John was just reaching into his pocket for his wallet when he heard a commotion behind him.

“Wait! Hold that cab!” John turned and saw Sherlock running out of the main doors of the palace, his coat fanning out behind him and tying his scarf as he went. 

“Why? What’s going on?” asked John.

“There’s been a murder,” said Sherlock, gleefully. “Not just a murder. Four murders! John, we have a serial killer on our hands!”

“You seem far too excited about this,” said John.

“Oh but it is exciting,” said Sherlock. He stopped short, just in front of John. He was standing very close again as though he didn’t fully understand the concept of boundaries and personal space. “Serial killers are all just waiting to be caught. They want the appreciation. And this one in particular is very clever. He’s made them all look like suicides.”

“But you can’t have serial suicides,” said John, mystified. He was leaning heavily on his cane as his left foot slowly went numb in the snow. 

"Precisely,” said Sherlock. “Thus, we have a serial killer.”

“Go on and take this cab then,” said John. “And I suppose I’ll call for another one.”

“You could come with me,” said Sherlock, looking down into John’s eyes. The Christmas lights from the castle reflected in Sherlock's eyes, adding tiny golden sparks to the blue.  
“You were in the army. Saw a bit of trouble, I expect.”

“Yes,” said John. “Enough for a lifetime.”

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh, god yes.”

“Not just a soilder. A doctor as well.” They were in the cab on the half hour journey down the mountain to the village in the valley below. The dark forest passed by the car and they had sat in silence for the better part of twenty minutes before Sherlock uttered his non sequitur.

“Pardon?” asked John, mystified again. 

“You,” said Sherlock. “A doctor and a soldier.”

“How on earth did you know that? Was it a callous on my left thumb or something like that?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “The palace ran a background check on you. Standard protocol.”

“Not one of your magic tricks then?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “Sometimes a bit of research is just as good as a deduction. Did I get anything wrong earlier by the way?”

John glanced over at Sherlock and Sherlock immediately looked down at his phone, his lips pressed together in a tight line. “Do you mean, when you deduced everything about my life based on my tan, my limp and my phone?”

Sherlock nodded once, curtly.

“Well,” said John. “You got the army service, you got that I was here on my own, you knew all about Harry and Clara and the drinking. The only thing is that Harry’s my sister. Short for Harriet.”

“Sister!” said Sherlock, the grin returning to his face. “There’s always something.”

The cab slowed and stopped in front of a building at the edge of the village. It was an old house, that seemed to be abandoned. Or it may just have been that it was a bit more shabby than the other houses in the neighborhood and not completely covered in Christmas lights and decorations.  
The street in front of the house was crawling with police officers and there was police tape across the pavement and the front door of the house. 

Sherlock approached the perimeter with John trailing behind. He approached a woman standing near the tape. “Your highness,” she said and curtsied. John would not have believed that a curtsy could be sarcastic until he witnessed this woman curtsy sarcastically.

“Not today, Donavan,” said Sherlock, lifting the tape for John and then leading him in to the house. 

“Just because he’s royalty, he thinks police procedure doesn't apply to him,” John heard Donavan mutter under her breath. John looked over his shoulder at her, not meaning to glare. Clearly, he did though because Donavan seemed to back off and go back to watching the street.

John followed Sherlock upstairs. By the time John made it up the stairs, Sherlock was already in conversation with a silver haired man. 

“Whose this, then?” asked the man, pointing his chin at John as he appeared in the hall.

“This is Dr. John Watson,” said Sherlock. “He’s with me.”  
“You know I’m breaking enough rules as it is letting you in there,” said the man.

“You do know it is my brother who makes the rules,” said Sherlock.

“Well, technically your brother and the prime minister and the members of parlement,” said the man, without much conviction. Clearly, they’d had this debate before. “Go on in then.”

Sherlock stepped through another web of police tape and into the room. 

The silver haired man stuck out his hand in John’s path before he could follow Sherlock. “DI Greg Lestrade,” he said. “How’d you end up with this one, then?”

“I honestly have no idea.”

Greg chuckled. “Best of luck to you,” he said. “Go on.”  
John ducked through the tape and was momentarily frozen when he saw the dead body laying on the floor. Yes, it was true that he’d seen his fair share of dead bodies but they always came as a shock, especially, when he wasn’t particularly expecting it. He’d never been to a crime scene before, unless you counted the scenes of the atrocities of war that he’d helped clean up after. He’d thought they took the body away before inspecting the room for clues, leaving behind only a neat chalk outline. 

John took a deep breath. Just a body. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. Sherlock was already kneeling on the floor next to the dead woman and John took a step closer. He watched Sherlock for several silent minutes as he inspected the woman, even going so far as to pull out a tiny magnifying glass out and inspect her jewelry with it. 

“I’d like your opinion, Doctor,” said Sherlock, breaking the silence. 

John almost looked over his shoulder, wondering who Sherlock could be talking to. He caught himself just in time to keep from looking like a complete idiot. He approached the woman on the other side, kneeling down next to her. He had to push his stiff leg into a bent position to get close enough to see anything useful. He hoped Sherlock hadn’t noticed but Sherlock seemed intent on investigating the woman's pockets so probably had missed it. 

John hesitated before lifting the woman’s hair. Sherlock looked up at him then and gave him a little encouraging smile and nod. John lifted the woman's hair and inspected her face, mouth, neck and hands and even went so far as to lean down and sniff her breath.

“What do you think?” asked Sherlock, his voice closer to John’s ear than he had expected.

John pushed himself back to sit upright. He cleared his throat and said, “No signs of strangulation. Asphyxiation, I’d say. Choked on her own vomit. Pills though, not alcohol.”

“Yes, we knew that already,” said Sherlock.

That comment pricked at John.

“So, what am I doing here, exactly?” asked John.

“It’s more fun than room service,” said Sherlock softly, with a smile. Then he stood and faced Lestrade. “You are looking for a pink suitcase. Whoever has the suitcase is the killer.”

“A pink suitcase?” asked Lestrade.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “Now, if you’ll excuse us-“

“Now wait a minute,” said Lestrade. “We can’t just go around arresting everyone who has a pink suitcase. We need more than that to go on. And how do you even know she had a pink suitcase?”

“She’s clearly from out of town, there’s a receipt from today from an airport in France. She hadn’t checked in to her hotel yet. She matches her nails to her shoes. She wouldn’t leave the hotel with her hair looking like that. I would say she’s in town for one or two nights, judging from the size of the suitcase.”

“How can you possibly know how big her non-existent suitcase is?”

“Splatter pattern on the back of her right leg but not her left. Indicates a medium sized carry on.”

John leaned over and saw the mud, just as Sherlock had said though he’d never have noticed it if it hadn’t been pointed out. “Brilliant, breathed John.

He looked up at Sherlock who had that small, uncertain smile on his face again, just briefly enough for John to see it.  
“Monitor skips, back alleys, anywhere someone could dispose of a bright pink suitcase. As soon as the murder realizes he has the case, he’ll be looking to get rid of it. It would be consipicous for a man to be pulling a suitcase like that about.”

Lestrade gave Sherlock a smile. “Thanks, your highness.”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock practically growel.

“Yeah, alright,” said Lestrade as he disappeared back out into the hall.

Sherlock stood, offering his hand to John. John debated not taking it for only a moment. But he did and he let Sherlock’s strong hand steady him.

“I believe I owe you dinner,” said Sherlock.

They walked from the house the rest of the way into town to a pub called the Rose and Crown. It was situated on a busy square that was packed with Christmas ephemera from the massive tree decked in lights and giant baubles in the middle of the square to the carolers dressed in their interpretation of Dickensian winter wear. 

Inside, the pub was bustling and warm. The Christmas decorations were much more subtle, limited to garland, lights over the bar and several strategically placed sprigs of mistletoe. There was a noticeable dip in the sound level as they entered and people began to notice that the prince had just entered the pub.  
A young waitress scurried over to them as they stood by the door. The waitress curtsied gamely. “Your Highness,” she said. “We didn’t know you’d be in tonight. But, um, thank you for coming in. I’m sure Angelo will be pleased to know you’re here. Can I-“

“Yes,” said Sherlock, cutting her off. “A table for two. That one is fine.” He stalked off across the pub to an empty table by the front window with John and the flustered waitress trailing behind. Sherlock took his seat and John sat as well. 

The waitress handed them both menus. “I’ll just let Angelo know you’re here,” she said. “And let me know if you need anything. Your Majesty.”

“Royal Highness,” said Sherlock. “But after the first address, no honorific is needed.”

The waitress looked at him like he’d sprouted antennae and was speaking Welsh.

“Sir, is fine,” clarified Sherlock.

“Oh, sorry sir,” said the waitress. “Thank you, sir. I’ll just-“ She curtsied again and left them, practically running back into the kitchen.

“Sorry about that,” said Sherlock. “Some people put a lot of stock in the fact that I was born into a specific family.”

“A specific family that happens to rule the country.”

“Symbolically.”

“Yes, well,” said Sherlock, staring out the window. “It’s enough to make some people lose their tiny minds.”

“Sherlock,” said John in a tone of voice that immediately drew all of Sherlock’s attention. He was smiling but in a way that reminded Sherlock that this small man was not as harmless as he looked and, being both a doctor and a soldier, probably knew at least seven ways to incapacitate him with just the dessert spoon sitting on the table. “She was nervous. She just met the brother of her country's ruler. You could cut her some slack.”

“Yes, I know,” said Sherlock harshly. “It’s just that the constant fawning is so tedious.”

“Yeah,” said John, his face suddenly softening. “I supposed it would be.” They both looked out the window for a moment as a light dusting of snow fell in the square. John watched as a mother and her young daughter stopped to look at the tree in the square. The mother picked the girl up and leaned closer to the tree so the girl could gently touch one of the large red baubles that was nearly as big as her head.

“I’m surprised your allowed to go out in public without security or clearence or, I don’t know, something,” said John, breaking the silence.

Sherlock smiled a Cheshire cat grin. “Oh, we are not nearly as important as your British royal family is, John. Though, technically I should have alerted someone before I left the palace. But Mycroft will have had eyes on me from the moment I got into the cab with you.”

“Oh,” said John, not really sure how to respond to that.

“Sherlock!”

John turned to see a man in a chef's jacket, with his long hair pulled back coming towards him. Sherlock stood and extended his hand for the man to shake.  
“I’m so pleased you decided to stop by this evening but you did give poor Dorothea quite a fright,” said the man as he shook Sherlock's hand. 

“Do give her my apologies, Angelo,” said Sherlock.

“Of course,” said Angelo, finally releasing him. “Anything you want, on the house. Sherlock here got me out of a tight spot,” he said, turning to John.

“Yes, I cleared his name in a drugs charge,” said Sherlock.

“That too,” said Angelo. “But I was talking about setting me up to cater the big garden party up at the palace every summer. It’s done wonders for my business.”

“It was nothing,” said Sherlock.

“Well, I appreciate it anyway,” said Angelo. “As I said, anything you want. On the house. What can I get you both?”

They ordered and Angelo disappeared into the kitchen after shaking Sherlocks hand a few more times. Sherlock and John sat in a silence for a moment, in the vacuum left behind after the disappearance of Angelo’s huge personality.

“Can I borrow your phone?” asked Sherlock out of the blue, putting his hand out as though he’d known before he’d asked that John would say yes.

“Sure,” said John, handing over the phone without really thinking about it.

Sherlock pulled a small card out of an inner pocket and placed it on the table. It was pink with darker pink letters spelling out the name Jennifer Wilson.

“Wait a minute,” said John, watching as Sherlock typed the number from the bottom of the card into John’s phone. “Is that the pink lady’s card?”

“Obviously,” said Sherlock.

“Why are you texting her?” asked John. “Do we even know where the phone is?”

Sherlocks thumbs moved in a blur and then hit send. He set the phone down on the table. “With the murderer, I expect.”

“Sorry, did you just text a murderer with my phone?” asked John, slightly incredulous.

“Mine was confiscated.”

Just then, the phone began to buzz. John picked it up. “Number withheld,” he said, reading off the display.

“So the murder does have the phone,” said Sherlock, grinning again. 

“What did you text him?” asked John. He unlocked his phone and read the latest text. ‘What happened at Lauriston House? I must have black out. Meet me at 10 St. Michael's Square.’ John was half curious to see what would happen next and half furious with Sherlock for apparently texting a murder asking him to meet them at the pub. The two halves warred for a moment but the curious part won out.

“You don’t think he’ll come, do you?”

“He just got a text from someone who could only be the woman he just killed. It might just be intriguing enough to draw him out.”

“This is mad,” said John.

“But more fun than room service,” replied Sherlock.

They actually had a very pleasant meal despite the looming threat of a murder coming to crash their evening. Sherlock spent much of the meal picking at his plate while John ate a delicious stew with dumplings. Sherlock was fascinating to talk to though he clearly had one eye on the square the entire time. He told John about Aldovia’s history and about customs and protocol at the palace. He told him a bit about how he helped clear Angelo’s name and about a few other cases he solved. He avoided talking about anything John would expect to talk to a new acquaintance about like jobs and family and school days. It was refreshing. 

Towards the end of the meal, as John was finishing a piece of chocolate gateau, Sherlock suddenly cut off in the middle of explaining the Aldovian legal system. “John, outside. No, don’t look,” he demanded as John turned his head. “There’s a cab outside. It’s stopped but no one’s getting in or out.”

“Do you think-“ started John but Sherlock was already running from the table, swinging his coat around him as he went. John was behind him before he could even consider it, pausing only to grab his coat from the back of the chair.

The cab started to pull away as they exited the pub. “I’ve got the number,” said John.

“No time for that,” said Sherlock. He closed his eyes and scrunched up his face. “This way!” he shouted, running off in the opposite direction.

John followed behind Sherlock as he ran through the back streets of the village. They crashed through gardens and over walls. They climbed up a snowbank and on to the roofs, running along the high street, the Christmas lights flashing as they ran past. They ducked through a trap door and in to a theatre where there was a production of the Nutcracker in progress. They ran through the back stage and out a side door. Across the street and through a Christmas market and John nearly ran in to Sherlock as he careened in to the front of the cab.

Sherlock ripped the back door open. He looked in for about half a second and then stalked away.

“Not him,” said Sherlock. “Tourist on a skiing holiday. No idea why the cabbie was taking him through the village though.”

John leaned in to the open cab door. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” said the man in a nasal American accent.

“Excellent. If you need anything, just let him know. He’s the prince.”

“Thank,” said the man, clearly puzzled.

John shut the door and rapped on the roof.

As the cab drove away, John looked at Sherlock and they both broke out laughing.

By this point the snow was beginning to fall more heavily. Sherlock hailed another cab and they settled in for another long drive up the mountain to the castle. The castle was visible long before they reached it, the plethora of Christmas lights shining through the trees.

“Who’s in charge of the palace Christmas decorations?” asked John.

“Our housekeeper, Mrs Hudson,” said Sherlock. “It’s ridiculous but it’s traditional and apparently that’s important.”

“Icicle lights are traditional?”

“Celebrating Christmas is traditional,” said Sherlock. “Aldovia’s main exports are nutcrackers and blown glass Christmas ornaments. The palace is meant to reflect our national pride in our artisans.”

“Yes well, there’s pride and then there’s this,” said John waiving his hand at the row of pine trees covered in Christmas lights lining the road.

Sherlock grinned at John and then looked out the window. “Mycroft did once ask Mrs Hudson to restrain herself. But Mrs Hudson is a force of nature and nothing short of a signed and sealed royal decree can keep her from doing a thing once she’s set her mind to it. And sometimes not even then.”

“She sounds like a spirited lady.”

“She really is,” said Sherlock.

The car pulled into the drive and stopped before the palace door. The snow was falling heavily now in glittering puff balls, reflecting the light from the palace. Sherlock put his hand on the doorhandle but didn’t move to get out of the car. He looked out at the snow and back at John.

“You should stay here tonight,” he said in a rush.

John gave him a curious look.

“It’s already late and it will be at least another forty-five-minute drive to your hotel in this weather. Longer even.”

“No, I couldn’t,” said John.

Sherlock gave him a look that John was beginning to think meant Sherlock thought he was being an idiot. “I have an entire palace at my disposal. It wouldn’t be an imposition.”

“All my things are at the hotel.”

“Surely an army man can tough it out for one night in the palace,” said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

“Alright then,” said John.

“Excellent,” said Sherlock, grinning again. He leapt out of the car and started bounding for the door. John moved to follow him and then noticed that he didn’t have his cane. He looked around the floor of the car, thinking maybe he’d set it down without realizing.

Sherlock turned back to look at him. Fluffy white snowflakes were gathering in his dark hair and on his eyelashes and his cheeks were already going pink from the cold. “It’s not there, John,” he called. “You left it at Angelo’s. Don’t worry, we can get it back. Not that you need it.

In all the excitement, John had run out the pub without his cane and he hadn’t missed it throughout the entire long chase through the village. He stepped out of the car, half expecting his leg to give way again now that he was thinking about it. His leg was fine, and he walked through the ankle deep snow without a problem. Sherlock walked next to him for a few steps, close enough that John could have reached out and grabbed Sherlocks arm if he’d needed to. But then he bounded away across the snow.

Inside the palace was warm and quiet. The corridors were lit only by Christmas lights and the occasional wall sconce. The windows at the front of the castle glowed with warm yellow light of the strings and strings of lights adorning the castles that were reflected in the snow. As they moved towards the back of the castle, the windows shifted to a muted purple. John couldn’t help but stop and stare out a large picture window at the end of a corridor. Though the storm and the clouds and the complete lack of lights stretching out into the distance should have made it pitch black, the scene was suffused with an omnipresent light. John could clearly see a large pine forest spreading out behind the palace and a mountain range in the distance.

Sherlock’s shoes tapped against the hardwood floor as he walked back down the corridor to where John had stopped.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s low voice sent a shiver up John’s spine.

“It is,” he said. “I can’t believe you actually grew up here.”

“Well, I did,” said Sherlock. “Except when I was at boarding school and uni.”

“I can’t imagine what that would have been like.”

Sherlock looked pensively out the window. He seemed on the verge of saying something but finally, he just shrugged. “This way, John.”

After what seemed like miles of corridors, Sherlock finally stopped and opened a door to a room. He stepped inside and flipped on the light.

“Everything should be stocked. Toiletries and a fresh toothbrush are in the cabinet. Towels under the sink.”

John was barely listening as he stared around the room. They were standing in a sitting room with a massive fireplace and a Christmas tree in front of the picture window. John actually had to look around the corner to the next room to see the edge of a large, four poster bed. Everything was done up in pale blues, and greens and creams and gold. John was fairly certain his entire flat would fit in this room. Twice.

Sherlock was still talking as he flitted around the room picking up pillows only to replace them and moving things on the mantle slightly to the left or right.

“Sherlock,” said John but Sherlock was straightening the stationery supplies on the desk. “Sherlock,” said John a little louder. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment. “Well, if you need anything, you have my number.”

“Do I?” asked John, bewildered.

“Yes. I put it in your phone before I texted the murderer.”

John shook his head. “Madman,” he said under his breath. But he was grinning.

Sherlock brushed past John and out the door, but he paused before he pulled it shut. “Goodnight, John.”

Ten minutes later, as John lay in an incredibly soft bed, his half-asleep mind kept replaying images of Sherlock’s face, his hands, his smile, his eyes. At first, he tried to force them away. It felt like overstepping some sort of boundary to be thinking about this man, who he just met that morning, as he fell asleep. He quickly gave it up as a lost cause. What did it matter anyway? He would maybe see the prince in the morning and then he’d be back to his hotel and back to England in a few days’ time and he’d never see him again.

Reassured, he let his mind run wild. He fell asleep trying to decide what colour he’d describe Sherlock’s eyes as and whether he thought Sherlock’s hands, or his mouth were the more attractive feature.


	3. A Christmas Snowmobile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas Eve! I hope you're doing something to make you happy today!
> 
> All I want to do is go on a walk through a pine forest in the snow but I can't so I'm letting the boys do it instead!

John woke feeling well rested. He’d actually had pleasant dreams, which was a rare enough occurrence, that he spent a few minutes laying in the warm bed, trying to remember what they were. The only thing he could grasp was following Sherlock as they ran down a tunnel of Christmas lights. John thought they might have been chasing Santa but he wasn’t sure if it was so they could get presents or if it was because Santa had stolen the presents.

After a few minutes, John was awake and his dream had dissolved, leaving a warm feeling in his chest. He got out of bed and pulled back the heavy curtain. Outside, deep snow covered what appeared to be an ornamental garden and more was continuing to come down. Unless the snow stopped soon, John wasn’t sure it he would make it back to the hotel that day. 

John made himself as presentable as he could in his yesterday’s suit before venturing out of his room. He had no idea where to go or even what he should be doing. He considered texting Sherlock, but he thought if he wandered long enough, he’d find a servant or someone who could help him. He went back up the corridor the way he’d come last night. The palace was very still as though the snowy quiet from outside had made its way inside. 

John reached the end of the corridor and stopped to consider which way to go next. Then he heard a violin playing in the distance. It sounded like it was coming from the right, so John went right to follow it. Two more corridors and a few turns later and John found himself in a large sitting room with parquet wood flooring. He crossed the room, following the sound of the violin. He peaked his head passed a sliding wood door into what must have been the music room.

Sherlock was standing in front of a floor length window, a violin under his chin. His back was to the door and John thought about making a noise or alerting Sherlock to his presence, but he cut such a striking figure that John leaned against the doorjamb to watch instead. Sherlock was playing ‘In the Deep Midwinter’ and the haunting melody flowed from his fingers with such feeling that John was transfixed. When Sherlock lowered the bow, John nearly broke into applause.

“Good morning, John” he said, his back still turned. 

“That was amazing,” said John. 

Sherlock finally turned around and looked at him, his face impassive and shrugged. “Thanks,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

“No, really,” said John. There was something off about Sherlock’s demeanour and combined with the sadness of the song he’d just been playing, John suddenly was desperate to make Sherlock know that John was giving him a serious compliment and not just being flippant. “That was one of the most beautiful pieces of music I’ve ever heard.” 

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” said Sherlock as he put the violin back in the case. He turned back around to face John and his face had gone from stony to stormy. “I imagine you’ll be wanting breakfast.” He stalked across the room and tried to get passed John and through the door, but John grabbed his arm.  
“Ok, do you want to tell me what your problem is?” he asked in a voice that made it very clear that it was not an actual question but a demand. “Because you are acting like a royal pain in the ass this morning.”

“What an apt description. I don’t think anyone’s put it so succinctly before,” said Sherlock. “You know, I could have you thrown in the dungeon for grabbing me like that.”

John ignored that last comment. “Are you mad because I was eavesdropping on your playing?”

Sherlock snarled and yanked his arm out of John’s grip. John took a quick step to the side and put himself between Sherlock and the exit. Then he crossed his arms and glared up at Sherlock. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I get enough false flattery from the sycophants that flood the court day in and day out that I don’t need you doing it too,” said Sherlock through gritted teeth.  
“What? Did you think I was lying to you when I said I liked your music?”

Sherlock shrugged again but he kept his eyes on John’s face. 

John stood there for a moment longer, his arms crossed, blocking he doorway. And then he started laughing. Sherlock’s face started turning red and John took a deep breath to compose himself. “Sherlock, I just called you a ridiculous pain in the ass. Do you really think I’d lie to you and pay you a compliment that I didn’t mean?”

John watched as his words sank in and Sherlock unclenched his teeth and his shoulders lowered and he uncrossed his arms. “Royal pain in the ass, was the expression I believe,” he said but there was the faintest hint of grin, just around the corner of his mouth.

They stood there, grinning at each other like idiots in the doorway for several long seconds. Standing and staring at someone for so long without saying or doing anything should have felt awkward but John found that he didn’t really want to move. Neither, it seemed, did Sherlock. John was in the middle of wondering if he could get thrown in the dungeon for trying to kiss the prince, and if it might be worth trying anyway, when there was a sound behind them.  
John looked over his shoulder to see an older woman in a deep purple dress. She inclined her head at Sherlock, in what could be described as an obeisance if you squinted. Or it could just have been an acknowledgement. “Breakfast is all laid out for you, dear,” she said. “And I had the chef send up tea along with your coffee for your special friend. Since he’s English.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock. 

“Mrs. Hudson?” asked John. “Sherlock was telling me about you. He said you’re a forced to be reckoned with.” He took a step forward and reached out to shake Mrs. Hudson’s hand.

Mrs. Hudson wrapped his hand in both of hers. “Did he? That was very kind of you, Sherlock,” she called over her shoulder at Sherlock, who was already going into the other room. 

“Yes, yes,” said Sherlock, waving a hand over his shoulder.

Mrs. Hudson leaned in a bit a lowered her voice. “Between you a me,” she said. “I’m so glad to see Sherlock with someone. He really is such a sweet boy, but he has this terrible habit of pushing people away. We were beginning to despair of him.”

John smiled uncomfortably. “It’s not like that,” he said. “I mean, we only just met yesterday. And he does seem nice and he’s very clever, but as I say, we only just met.” 

Mrs. Hudson smiled indulgently and patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Everyone here is very liberal minded. In fact, Sherlock’s cousin, the Lord of Farthingham just had the most beautiful gay wedding last summer and-“

“Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock appearing at the door again. “Stop talking John’s ear off. His tea’s getting cold.”

“Of course, of course,” she said, shooing John through the doorway. 

John entered a small dining room, or at least what John took to be small for the palace. The table looked like it could seat about twelve. Sherlock was seated at the head of the table and was perusing a stack of newspapers while he picked at a piece of toast.

Another place setting was set in the seat nearest Sherlock complete with a cup of steaming tea. An extravagant amount of food was set out on the buffet table but then, John realized, he did know who else might be joining them. In fact, the king could come walking in at any minute to grab a coffee and a scone.

John filled his plate and sat down at the table. It was actually rather cosy, despite the grandeur of the room. John took a sip of his tea and grimaced. It tasted like it had about three tablespoons of sugar in it. 

“Everything alright?” asked Sherlock, still looking at the papers. 

“Just the tea’s a bit sweet,” said John.

“Hmm,” hummed Sherlock, as he flipped a page.

“Is there anyone else coming to breakfast?” John asked after a moment.

“Mycroft always eats breakfast in his study and Mummy usually forgets. Don’t worry,” he said, finally looking up. “You’re not likely to encounter His Majesty over eggs and bacon.”

After they finished breakfast, Sherlock announced that he needed to follow up with Lestrade about the previous night’s case. John looked out the window. The snow was still falling though it seemed a bit lighter than before. 

“Do you think the roads are passible?” he asked. “I could call for a cab back to the hotel.”

Sherlock pulled out his phone and started typing away. “The snow ploughs haven’t been through yet and with the wind, the drifts could be treacherous. You’re better off staying here.”

“Ok,” said John, uncertainly. “I supposed I can just-“

“I’ll show you to the library,” said Sherlock. 

The library was a large room on the ground floor with floor to ceiling bookshelves that even had rolling ladders to get to the top shelves. It looked out on to the decorative garden that John had seen from his room. There were several soft looking arms chairs by the large windows and a fire had been lit and was crackling away. It looked like a perfect place to spend the morning.

“I shouldn’t be too long and in the meantime, help yourself to any of the books,” said Sherlock. 

John spent a few minutes looking around the room before he picked a book and settled down to read. It was only a few minutes later when he heard the door open and the approach of some posh sounding shoes.

“That was quick, Sherlock. I would have expected-“But John cut himself off because, coming around a bookshelf, was the king.

John leapt to his feet. He considered bowing but he hadn’t bowed to Sherlock and this was only his brother. He settled for standing at attention.

“That’s not necessary,” said the King in an oily voice. His voice was higher than his brother’s and, though he spoke softly, he had a presence that could clearly command the room if he needed to. “Sit down, John.”

“That’s alright,” said John. “I’ll stand.” John suddenly felt like he was in a confrontation with this man, though he’d done nothing except smile politely at him.  
“What is your connection to my brother?” he asked. He was still smiling, but the smile didn’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t have one. We met-“John paused. He knew it had only been yesterday but it seemed so much longer. “Yesterday.”

“Yet since you met him, you have been in his company almost constantly and you’ve already found your way into the palace.” 

“That was because of the snow. You don’t think I made it snow to- What? Take advantage of Sherlock? Steal from the palace?” John found himself getting really, truly angry.

“No,” said the king slowly. “Of course not.”

“Do you interrogate all of Sherlock’s friends?” asked John.

“I can’t say the issue has come up before,” replied the king. 

John opened his mouth and then closed it. He was about to say something very cutting when he heard the library door open again and this time it was Sherlock. He walked past his brother, completely ignoring him and slid into the armchair across from where John had been sitting. And then he kept sliding until he was practically hanging out of the chair and his legs were stretched out almost to John’s chair.

“They caught the killer,” he said morosely.

“You don’t seem very happy about it,” John replied. Sherlock seemed to be ignoring Mycroft and John was all too happy to play along.  
“This one seemed like one of the interesting ones, but he confessed as soon as they caught him,” said Sherlock.

“How’d he do it?” asked John. 

“Pills. One poisoned and one safe. He made the victims choose one at gunpoint and then they both took them.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” said Mycroft. “I was having a private conversation with your friend.”

“I’m sure you’ve said everything you could possibly have to say to him,” said Sherlock, barely turning his head to look at him.

“I’m sure it wasn’t important,” said Mycroft, turning to leave.

John sat down in the char opposite Sherlock. “How did they catch him?”

“He was spotted dumping a pink suitcase in a tip behind a restaurant. The owner thought it was suspicious so she called the police and they turned up immediately and arrested him. Boring.”

“But you were right.”

“Of course, I was right,” said Sherlock, staring petulantly out the window. 

John tapped Sherlocks foot with his toe. When Sherlock didn’t look at him, he leaned forward, hesitated for a moment and then put his hand on Sherlock’s knee. That got Sherlocks attention and he swung he head round to look at John.

“Because of you, the police knew to take that call seriously and investigate. Because of you, a serial killer is in custody. You’ve saved at least one person’s life. Probably more. Think about it. That is one family that will be celebrating Christmas together instead of mourning a lost life and that’s down to you.” John realized he was rubbing his thumb along the side of Sherlock’s kneecap and up to where bone met taught muscle. He pulled his hand back.

Sherlock was looking at him with his piercing blue eyes and John thought he could almost see the mechanisms of Sherlock’s brilliant mind moving behind them. “Thank you, John,” he said softly.

They sat for a moment in silence and Sherlock’s gaze returned to the window. Suddenly leapt up. “The snows letting up,” he said.

John felt his stomach lurch. Sherlock was sending him back to the hotel.

Sherlock reached out a hand and pulled John to his feet. “I’ll give you a tour of the grounds before the snow starts again.”

Half an hour later, John found himself in borrowed boots and gloves, wearing snowshoes and following behind Sherlock through the pine forest. He’d been hesitant about the snowshoes, unsure if he could yet fully rely on his leg for balance and support. Sherlock had insisted that it was the only way to manage the deep snow drifts and John found that an insistent Sherlock was difficult to deny. 

They trudged through the woods, Sherlock describing how to identify the twelve different types of pine tree that grew there and pointing out the burrows of animals hiding away for the winter. At one point, Sherlock grabbed John’s arms and shushed him and then a giant stag with massive branching antlers walked across their path. 

After a few hours, the snow began to pick up again and, though it was still lights, it was beginning to get difficult to see. 

“Sherlock, shouldn’t we be heading back?” asked John.

“We’re too far to go back now,” said Sherlock.

“So, what exactly is your plan?”

“Don’t worry, John,” said Sherlock. 

“You’re making that kind of difficult for me,” said John.

Sherlock just looked over his shoulder at him and grinned.

John followed behind Sherlock for another ten minutes. They crested the top of a hill and, at the base of the hill on the other side, was a cabin. Well, it was built like a cabin but in reality, could have house four medium sized families comfortably.

“It’s my father’s hunting lodge,” said Sherlock. “Nobody really comes out here anymore though.

Sherlock led John down the hill and into the lodge. John stood just inside the doorway, brushing snow off his coat, and kicking it off his boots while Sherlock ran around the lodge, tracking snow everywhere. There was already wood in the fireplace and Sherlock knelt to light the kindling. A blazing fire sprung up so quickly that it almost seemed like magic. There was a large Christmas tree on the far wall and garlands along the railings and banisters. Sherlock flipped a switch, and the lights came on, bathing the inside of the lodge with a warm glow. The lodge was much more casual than the palace and John could actually see himself feeling at home in it.

“Even the hunting lodge that nobody visits is decorated for Christmas,” commented John.

“As I said, Mrs. Hudson can’t be stopped when she sets her mind to something,” said Sherlock. “Take a seat and warm up by the fire.” He pointed to the chair to the left of the fire. It was a low squashy, red chair with a tartan blanket thrown across the back. John settled into it and was struck by how comfortable it was.

“Drink?” asked Sherlock, taking two glasses and a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet. He poured them both drinks and then sat down across from John in a dark, leather armchair.

“We can warm up here for a bit and then take the snowmobile back,” said Sherlock. “And we’ll be back to the palace in time for dinner.

“There’s a snowmobile?” asked John.

“We could take a horse drawn sleigh, but the snowmobile is much quicker.”

There was silence for a moment as they both sipped their whiskey and stared at the fire.

“Why did you decide to become a doctor?” asked Sherlock out of the blue.

John blinked, considering the question. “My aunt had cancer when I was young, and my mum went with her to appointments for more support. She took me to a few of them and I guess, I was always just struck by how the doctor seemed to have all the answers. Mum and Aunt Karen would have all these questions and be really worried about thing and then the doctor would come in and explain everything and put them at ease. I just thought that would be nice to be able to do.”

Sherlock continued to stare at him after John finished speaking. The light from the firelight shone off his eyes, changing them from pale ocean mist blue to the dark grey of a summer storm cloud.

“My aunt was fine,” said John, after the scrutiny because too much. “She’s still around, back home in England.”

“Oh, yes. Good,” said Sherlock. “Did you have pets as a child?”

Sherlock continued throwing questions at him, most unrelated to the question that came before but all to do with his childhood and family and life before the army. John had the sense that he was being dissected and catalogued. He thought this was perhaps how the Pink Lady would have felt under Sherlock examination if she’d been alive to witness it.

John should have felt uncomfortable with the situation, and there were one or two questions that John certainly wasn’t comfortable with, like the question about his thoughts on Harry’s drinking. When he pointed out to Sherlock that his sister’s self-destructive habits were not his preferred topic of conversation, Sherlock shrugged and moved on, seemingly unbothered by the rebuke. 

It was fully dark by the time the fire had died down and Sherlock announced it was time to return to the castle. They bundle up into their cold weather clothes and went out in to the darkness. Sherlock handed John a helmet and pushed his own down on to his head flattening his curls.

“You’ll have to ride behind me,” Sherlock said as he swung a leg over the snowmobile and John suddenly felt his heartrate pick up and a blush spread up his face and probably as far as his ears. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up and down John’s body but John thought he could blame his suddenly red cheeks and ears on the bitterly cold wind.

He slid on to the back of the snowmobile. Sherlock reached a hand around to grab John’s wrist and pull his arm around Sherlock’s chest. “Hold on,” he called over the sound of the engine and that was all the warning John got before they were off, tearing through the snow.

John wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock and slid forward as far as he could. The more inappropriate connotations of this position were in the forefront of his mind, but it seemed that Sherlock was the only secure point in the moving, swirling darkness.

The snow became tiny, blazing white sparks as it was illuminated by the snowmobile’s headlights. Sherlock swerved around the trees, coming close to them but not close enough that John was too worried. It was clear that Sherlock had driven that path many times.

By the time they returned to the palace, John had begun to really enjoy the ride and was thinking how much he’d enjoy driving like that one day. Still, when he tried to follow Sherlock off the snowmobile, his leg buckled, just for a moment, from the adrenaline of the ride. 

Sherlock stepped right into his space, took hold of his elbow and held him steady. “Alright?” he asked in his low voice.

“Oh, God yes,” said John. “I mean, sorry. I mean, yes. That was fantastic.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Good.”

John’s suit had been pressed and his dress shirt had been laundered while they’d been out. John was incredibly grateful to whatever domestic fairy that had done that, though it was probably Mrs. Hudson. John made a point to thank her if he saw her.

Sherlock had said the family was gathering for drinks before dinner in the sitting room next to the music room. After John had finished making himself as presentable as possible, he made his way there. He paused outside the door, suddenly nervous. Though he’d already met the king which should have been the thing to worry about. But instead, he found himself wanting to make a good impression on Sherlock’s mum. 

He took a deep breath and opened the door. Sherlock immediately stood from his seat by the fire and came over to him. “John. Good, you’re here. Come meet mummy,” he said as he took John by the arm and pulled him across the room. 

Sherlock placed John directly in front of a woman with pure white hair set into a perfect bob and, oddly, eyes the exact same indescribable shade as Sherlock’s. John gave a small bow. “Your Majesty,” he said, feeling incredibly awkward.

“Oh, none of that here when it’s just us,” she said, reaching out a hand for John to shake. “You may call me Violet.”

“Thank you, Ma- um, Violet,” said John and he could tell he was blushing again. He made the mistake at looking at Sherlock how was looking down at him with the smallest, sweetest smile. It seemed to John that Sherlock had a wealth of different smiles for different occasions and John was surprised to realize how much he enjoyed discovering new ones.

“Whiskey?” asked Sherlock. He went to the drinks cart without waiting for a response and poured a glass. Then he took a seat on the sofa, indicating that John should sit as well, and handed him the drink. 

John finally got a chance to look around the room which was the first room John had seen that could have actually fit in a normal home. A nice, spacious home but a home none the less. It had deep green wallpaper and a large fire place with a roaring fire. There was another Christmas tree and Christmas cards had been lined up along the mantle and were hung from red ribbons that looped from the rafters. 

There was also a large painting above the fire of a kind looking older man. John recognized him as the previous king from the paintings he’d seen on his tour. But this picture showed him seated in a comfortable chair with a stack of books and a dog on his lap. It had clearly been intended for the family to remember him as they had known him and not as the monarch his people knew him as.

“My father,” said Sherlock softly, clearly noticing where John was looking.

“What was he like?” John asked, turning to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock thought for a long moment. A small wrinkle appeared between his eyes as though it were important that he come up with the exact right description. “Very kind,” he said, finally.

The door opened and Mycroft entered the room followed by a short, blond woman. John stood and Sherlock followed a moment later. “You’ve already met my brother. And this is his wife, Matilda,” said Sherlock. John bowed again in both their general direction.

Matilda seemed about to speak but Mycroft cut her off. “So lovely to see you again, John. Sherlock’s been showing you the grounds, then? And the hunting lodge. So good of you to go out there and check on it periodically.”

John felt a current of anger passing between the brothers that he didn’t really understand. He resisted the urge to duck in case they started hurling actual lightning bolts at each other.

“Shall we go into dinner?” asked Mycroft, taking his wife’s arm, and leading her through to the adjoining dining room where John and Sherlock had had breakfast that morning.

“You never were one to let anything get between you and a good meal,” said Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” said Violet while John glared at him.

“Very well. The new diet must be working,” said Sherlock as he followed Mycroft into the dining room. “Your buttons are under considerably less strain than they were a few weeks ago.”

“Shall we?” asked Violet, coming up to John’s side and giving him her arm so that he could lead her in to the dining room.

The dinner was much less awkward than John had expected it to be. Much of the dinner was given over to discussing the upcoming Christmas ball. There were a lot of last-minute details to be finalized that John would probably have taken care of earlier. But what did he know? He’d never planned a ball in his life and clearly Violet had planned many. Still, he would have thought details like the musicians and the flower arrangements would have needed to be settled weeks in advance.

They also discussed John’s background in the military and his medical career. Violet asked many of the same questions Sherlock had though in a much less intense and probing way. 

As they were clearing away dessert, Violet turned to John and asked, “You are planning on coming to the ball, aren’t you?”

John swivelled his head from Violet to Sherlock, who was looking down, studying the pattern of the tablecloth resolutely.

“Oh, I don’t want to impose,” said John. 

“It wouldn’t be an imposition,” said Violet. “Hundreds of people will be there, so what’s one more?”

“I don’t know,” said John. “I don’t think I’d have anything appropriate to wear.”

“I’m sure something could be arranged,” said Violet. “Don’t you think, Sherlock?”

Sherlock just huffed.

“Ignore him,” said Violet. “Just know that you would be more than welcome. I do hope we’ll see you there. But now, I need you boys to go. Mycroft and I have a few last-minute details to look at and we need the table top to work.”

As John and Sherlock went back through to the sitting room, the passed Matilda carrying a stack of binders so high that John wondered how she could see where she was going. All the binders said things like, ‘Christmas Party’ and ‘Party Plans’ along the spine.

Sherlock flopped into a chair by the sitting room fire. John waffled for a minute, unsure if he should go sit down or go back to his room for the night.  
“Sit, John,” said Sherlock finally.

John sat in the chair across from him. He waited for Sherlock to say something, but Sherlock only stared in to the fire. Eventually, John gave up waiting and picked up a book that happened to be sitting nearby. It was a memoir of an old Aldovian war hero from the 19th century. John read, his attention half on the book and half on Sherlock. As he read longer and the hour grew later, he lost focus on the book more and more often until, eventually, he was just watching Sherlock as Sherlock watched the dancing embers in the fire.

Eventually, they heard a clock strike eleven o’clock in the distance. Sherlock shook himself and looked up at John. John glanced down at his book quickly so he could at least have plausible deniability. Sherlock stretched, his back arching away from the chair and John was staring again.

“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock. “You must have had a very dull evening. I was thinking about a problem and sometimes I get so caught up in my own mind that I forget there are other people around.”

“It’s fine,” said John. “I didn’t mind. It was actually relaxing to just sit quietly for a while and not have people talking my ear off or the tele going in the background.”

“Good. That’s good.” 

John set his watch down and glanced at his watch. “I think I’ll turn in,” he said.

“I’ll walk with you,” said Sherlock.

They walked in companionable silence through the halls that were once again dimmed and lit only by Christmas lights. 

They stopped at John’s door. John put a hand on the door handle. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” John said, turning to Sherlock. Sherlock was standing nearer than John expected, staring down at him, looming really. John’s heart was suddenly in his throat, pounding fit to beat the band.

“John,” said Sherlock, breathlessly. John could feel himself leaning in, like Sherlock was one tall, beautiful magnet. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Sherlock was leaning imperceptibly down as well.

“John,” said Sherlock again. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.”

John felt a smile split his face, drawn out by the absolute incongruity of the statement. “Yes, it is.”

“You shouldn’t be alone on Christmas Eve,” said Sherlock. “Stay here at the palace.” John opened his mouth to respond but Sherlock cut him off. “If you’re about to say you’re concerned out imposing, that really isn’t necessary, I assure you. There are always far too many people here for Christmas Eve and Christmas day. It would be nice if there was one among them whose company, I don’t find repellent.”

John opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Well done you for reading my mind,” he finally said. Sherlock began to frown. “That would be lovely,” said John, hoping to wipe the forlorn expression off his face. “But I really should go get a few things from the hotel.”

Sherlock was smiling again, and the expression filled John’s chest with warm like he’d taken a sip of good whiskey. “Good, good. I’ll make sure to let Mrs Hudson and mummy know you’ll be staying.

They stood there, staring at each other for several long seconds. John was awash with mixed signals. Every part of him was telling him to take a small step forward, grab a handful of Sherlock’s ridiculously posh white shirt and snog him senseless. Every part of him except a very small but loud part of his cerebral cortex which was shouting, “Bad idea! Bad idea!” 

John watched Sherlock for the smallest sign that he wasn’t misreading the situation and that Sherlock would be receptive to the things that the rest of his mind and body were screaming for. But Sherlock was the prince and surely it had to be against the rules for someone as normal as John to kiss him. And more importantly, John considered the little of Sherlock’s upbringing and life at the palace he’d been able to glean. He knew that Sherlock hadn’t had many opportunities for friendship and maybe he didn’t know what his body language was telegraphing to John. Maybe Sherlock was just happy to have someone to spend time with after so much loneliness.

It was this last thought that made John step back and open the door to his room. It was much better to not overstep the bounds and potentially embarrass Sherlock in to never opening up to anyone else ever again. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” said John, stepping into his room. He paused before he shut the door. “I enjoy your company too,” he said, before clicking the door shut.


	4. A Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!!  
> Here is something fun for Christmas Day!
> 
> After this chapter, I won't be posting for a few days since I have yet to write the last few chapters. At this point, I'm thinking there will be about 8 chapters total. But I thought I got it to a nice little resolution where this story can rest for a few days until I get the next part done.
> 
> I hope all you lovely readers are making the best of this Christmas Day!

On Christmas Eve morning, John left the palace to retrieve his things from the hotel. He, at Sherlock’s insistence, would be checking out of the hotel and staying at the palace for the remainder of his trip. His flight left early in the morning the day after Boxing Day anyway. 

He took a detour in to the village on the way back to the palace to pick up a few Christmas presents. He had no idea what to get the kings and queens and princes for Christmas, but he felt like he should have something. 

He arrived back at the palace in the late afternoon, just behind a posh red sports cart. The driver of the car had a strong resemblance to Sherlock, both with the dark hair and the lanky stature though John thought Sherlock was probably just a bit taller. The man got out of the car and flipped the keys to one of the footmen by the door. John watched as one of the footmen went to the boot to take out a suitcase and garment bag and the other went to the driver’s side to drive the car away.

John’s cab pulled up next and a third footman came down the steps to get John’s bag from the boot. 

“Oh no, let me,” said John apologetically.

“Don’t worry,” said the footman, with a grin. “It’s what they pay me for.”

John followed the footman, who was carrying his busted old carry on, up the palace stairs and then up the grand staircase and through the halls. The palace was more busy than he’d seen it. There seemed to be servants everywhere adding even more Christmas decorations to the already liberally decorated corridors. 

They passed several other guests with their attendant footmen. Several of them stared as he passed. John did his best to smile and nod unconcernedly at each one though each time it happened he became more and more concerned that he was getting into a situation that he really didn’t belong in.

John felt an enormous sense of relief when they arrived in his room, though he was surprised to find that he thought of it as his room. There was a small card on the accent table by the door with the palace logo on the outside. Inside, there was a note from Sherlock which read, ‘John, The dress code for the evening is casual so a nice jumper should suffice. I’ll come by your room around 8pm. It is typically prudent to eat before these events, so I’ve asked Mrs Hudson to send you up a sandwich. -S of A’.

Despite the terse, business like language of the note, John found himself running his thumb over Sherlock’s signature. He tucked the card in to a pocket of his suitcase before pulling out a navy jumper. It was just from some high street shop, a gift from Harry years ago, but he’d barely worn it so there were no pills or holes. It would certainly look terribly gauche next to the rest of the party goers but John hoped at least that he wouldn’t be actively laughed out of the room.  
Several hours later and one delicious sandwich later, he was dressed and pacing around his room, fiddling with his phone and wating for Sherlock. John hadn’t been this nervous for a date in years. But it wasn’t a date, as he continually reminded himself. 

At the sound of the knock on the door, John’s stomach flipped like he’d missed a step going down the stairs. He practically ran to open the door. And Sherlock was standing there. He was wearing a deep purple shirt that was unbuttoned enough to show his clavicle and long stretches of neck. The rich colour against his pale skin made his skin look like ice and John found himself wanting to kiss up that long nek until he warmed it up a bit. He licked his lips and instantly felt embarrassment in the pit of his stomach.

Sherlock just grinned at him. “You look nice,” he said. 

John actually felt his knees go a little watery. “You do too,” he said. 

“Let’s go,” said Sherlock grinning. “Mycroft can’t abide tardiness.”

When they arrived, the gathering was in full swing and seemed to have been going for a while. There were at least thirty people gathered in the large room. As soon as they entered the room, Sherlock snagged two glasses of champagne and made his way to a far corner, glaring at people as he went. To those who went so far as to actually greet him, he bit out a snarled “Hello,” before brushing past him.

“Sherlock,” said John when they’d settled into their corner. “What could all these people have done to you? Surely they aren’t all that bad.” John leaned into Sherlock as he spoke, the noise of the crowd giving him a good excuse to stay closer than was strictly necessary.

“They’re all so fake,” said Sherlock. “It’s revolting. They only show interest when there’s something for them to gain. And they’re all so self-serving, only concerned with their own estates and staff and ponies. It disgusts me.”

“Wow, Sherlock,” said John, laying a calming hand on his arm. “Ok. It’s ok. We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

Sherlock seethed silently for a few moments.

When Sherlock seemed to have calmed down a bit, John finally allowed himself to ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue. “Why, if you don’t trust any of them, have you decided to trust me?”

Sherlock looked down at John, giving him his full attention for the first time since they come into the room. Sherlock was studying him so deeply in fact, that John was afraid to breath, afraid with this level of scrutiny that even a breath would give away how John was starting to feel about him. 

Finally, Sherlock blinked. “There’s no possible advantage for you to associate with me. So, I know your motivations are selfless.”

John’s stomach twisted at that and he gripped Sherlocks arm where his hand still lay tighter. “I can think of many advantages to knowing you,” said John softly. 

A conspicuous throat clearing to John’s left reminded him suddenly that they were at a party. He looked and saw Mycroft standing there.

“I should have known I’d find you both skulking in a corner,” he said. “It appears I am breaking up a moment. Can we expect a happy announcement soon?”

“Piss off, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, not looking away from John. 

“Much as I am loathed to come between you two, Mummy has requested that you come talk to Mr Tuner, the head of the Agricultural Committee. He has a bit of a mystery for you and we all know how you love your mysteries.”

“I’m sorry, John,” said Sherlock. “The crown calls.”

“I thought Mycroft was the crown.”

“We all know that’s not true,” said Sherlock before he disappeared into the crowd.

Mycroft gave John a small, conspiratorial nod before he was swept into the conversations of those around him. 

John meandered through the crowd, looking at the artwork and making his way towards a buffet table on the opposite side of the room. When he reached it, he realized why Sherlock had suggested he eat before the party. The only hors d’oeurves on the table were small cubes of what appeared to be jellied meat on round crackers. John wrinkled his nose and continued around the room. He paused for a moment near the drinks table when the sound of Sherlock’s name caught his ear.

“Such an odd one,” John heard a woman in a slinky red dress saying. “Especially when we were younger. He was always so quiet but then he’d come out with the most preposterous things all of a sudden. Accusing people of stealing or having affairs or cheating on tests.” 

“I still think he was making it up most of the time,” said the man John had seen that afternoon getting out of the sports car. “Did you hear he was involved in the serial suicides? The inspector on the case mentioned in the press conference that Sherlock “assisted”. Can’t imagine how.”

The whole group laughed at that and the sound sent a surge of anger through John. He took two deep breaths and moved away from the group, instead of getting right in the smarmy, dark haired man’s face and telling exactly how much Sherlock had done in that case and exactly how amazing he’d been.

Instead, he went to look at the Christmas tree. It was the grandest tree he’d seen in the palace and he’d seen a lot of them. It was covered in gold and cream ribbon and decorated with handblown glass bulbs and carved wooden ornaments. John made his way around the far side of the tree, looking at the ornaments and he was just looking at a large acorn when he heard voices on the other side of the tree.

“It seems that Sherlock has a new friend.” John peaked around the tree and saw two older men talking to each other. 

“Yes,” said the man with a flat, shiny face and small glasses. “I did a little research in to him. British army doctor. Newly returned to civilian life. Here on holiday only.” His voice had a lilting accent that made his words that much more insidious.

“I can’t imagine what he’s trying to achieve by befriending Sherlock like that,” said the first man. “There’s little enough Sherlock can do for someone who’s not even a citizen of the country.”

“It could be another Sebastian situation,” said the second man. “Friendship with royalty does have its perks.”

John couldn’t handle it any longer. Did every single person in this room automatically think the worst of Sherlock? He stepped around the tree and the two men turned to face him. John would have laughed at their expressions if he hadn’t been so furious.

“Evening,” he said, his voice as hard as iron, face like a stone.

“Excuse me,” said glasses. “I just think I see…” He trailed off, turned and walked away into the crowd.

“Yes, I think I’ll join him,” said the other man.

John stood alone again by the tree, unsure if he should feel triumphant or not.

“That was excellent, John,” said Sherlock’s voice in his ear, sending shivers down his spine. He turned and once again Sherlock was standing too close to him.

“I hope that wasn’t any one important.”

“Only the CEO of one of our largest corporations and the head of the number one media organization.”

“Fantastic,” said John, sourly.

“I agree,” said Sherlock, grinning. “Come on. There’s music starting in the next room. It’s the only tolerable part of this whole affair.” They made their way through the crowd to the exit but were waylaid by the Tall, Dark and Smarmy and his friend, Slinky Red Dress.

“We heard you’ve been helping out the police again,” said Tall, Dark and Smarmy.

“Yes, Simon. I was able to be of some small assistance to the police,” said Sherlock. He tried to move past the group but Simon stepped in to his path, forcing him to stop or squeeze past the garlands surround the door to leave.

“It’s so nice of you to take an interest in community matters,” said Simon. “And it’s so kind of the detective to allow you to tag along.”

The anger that had been bristling along John’s neck suddenly broke free. He stepped between Sherlock and Simon. “Don’t you know you shouldn’t comment about things you don’t understand?” he asked, smiling the smile that didn’t reach his eyes but left them cold and glaring.

“Your defense of Sherlock in this manner shows that you clearly don’t know what you’re talking about either,” said Simon through an icy grin. “You should take a bit of your own advice.”

“I can tell after just a few moments in your presence that Sherlock is infinitely the better man between the two of you.”

Sherlock’s iron grip wrapped around John’s arm. “Come on,” he hissed into John’s ear. He pulled John through the doorway into a circular room with a small stage at one end. They took a seat and the choir filed on to the stage. 

The sweet sound of voices suffices the room, the sound slowly washing over John like the lazy waves of a river washing over stones. The sound warmed him from the inside out. He chanced a glance at Sherlock who had his eyes shut and his head tilted back. John listened to the rest of the concert with half an eye on Sherlock. He didn’t understand the word of the music, it was in Latin or maybe Spanish but he though he understood the message of hope and joy the music conveyed. 

When the music ended and the singers filed off stage, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. 

“I really don’t think I can stomach another minute with those imbeciles in the other room. I think I’ll retire early,” he said.

“Yeah, I think I’ve met as many rich socialites as I can handle for one evening,” said John.

“Shall we walk back together?” asked Sherlock, doing a very good impression of nonchalance.

“Sure,” said John.

As they walked, John asked Sherlock about the piece of music they’d been listening to and was still in the middle of telling John about the composer’s life as a Catholic priest in Renaissance Spain. He was expounding on the architecture of the cathedrals of the period and the acoustics they used to project music and create a spiritual atmosphere by the time they arrive at John’s door.

“Sherlock,” asked John, catching him between sentences. “Do you want to come in?”

Sherlock blinked at him confused. “Why would I do that?”

“Because it would be much more comfortable to sit and talk in my room than to stand in the corridor.”

“No,” said Sherlock. “I’ll go and leave you to your evening.”

But he was still standing there, unmoving. In fact, he took a step forward.

“Thank you,” he said, and he was standing close enough to John again that he was leaning over him, curving around him.

“For what?” asked John and he was suddenly extremely aware of the very small amount of space between them. His brain started, unhelpfully, calculating how far he would have to move and the angle he would have to tilt to press his lips to Sherlocks.

“For being there. For not judging me. For accepting me.” And this time, it was obvious Sherlock was moving towards him, hovering just above him. John couldn’t look away from Sherlocks eyes. He was pretty sure the palace could start crumbling around them and he wouldn’t care. “John,” said Sherlock in a near whisper.

John reached up and put a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck pulling them together. John paused, his hand on Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock leaning over him and he watched Sherlock’s eyes fall shut. John took a breath and leaned up to press his lips to Sherlock’s. 

He felt Sherlock sigh and his hand come up to John’s sides, clinging to his jumper. John moved slowly, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s. Then he moved away and pressed his face into Sherlock’s neck, pulling him closer until they were wrapped tight together. He could feel Sherlock shaking, his breaths coming in rough exhalations.

“Come inside,” said John.

Sherlock nodded, silently. 

John opened his door and pulled Sherlock through. He shut the door and turned to face Sherlock. The room was dark except for the Christmas tree and Sherlock’s face glowed gold in the light. Sherlock was looking at John again with all his focus, his eyes roving around his face. John waited for a moment, letting Sherlock take it in. Then he couldn’t wait any longer and he stepped forward. He put his hands on Sherlock’s chest, sliding them up to his shoulders. Sherlock seemed frozen, his eyes fluttering shut as John ran a thumb over the bare skin of Sherlock’s clavicle. Then put at hand on John’s check, cupping his jaw and leaned down to kiss him. They started slowly but very quickly, Sherlock began leaning in, pressing insistently until John’s back was against the door.   
Sherlock kissed with the same intensity of focus he brought to everything else he did. After a very long time, Sherlock stared kissing down John’s neck. He hit a spot just below John’s ear and John gasped. He could feel Sherlock grinning into his neck. His fingers kept straying to the buttons of Sherlock shirt and eventually he stopped holding himself back. He opened the first button. He felt Sherlock go still in his arms, but he didn’t step back.

“John, what are you doing?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Nothing you don’t want to do,” said John. “But if you’d like, I think we should move this to the bed.”

John felt Sherlock shudder, his face still hidden in John’s neck. Then Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, pulling them close together. Sherlock took several deep breaths, then pulled back and stared pulling John to the bed by the hand.

John yanked back, bring Sherlock to a halt. He put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, holding him place so John could look at him. “Sherlock, we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. We can sit and talk, or we can do more of what we’ve been doing. It’s all fine. Whatever you want.”

Sherlock looked John in the eye. “I trust you, remember?”

Then he leaned in to press a slow kiss to John’s lips before pulling him to the bed.


	5. A Christmas Crime Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas morning in Aldovia! Time for presents and cinnamon rolls (a traditional Aldovian food).

John woke once in the middle of the night. He’d rolled over in his sleep and ended up with his nose buried in a puff of curly hair. The surprise of it jolted him fully awake and the previous evening came flooding back to him. Sherlock was already moving in concert with John, pressing his forehead to John’s chest and putting a hand on his hip. On of Sherlock’s feet tangled with John’s. John relaxed in to Sherlock’s grasp.

He lay awake for a while, not in any particular hurry to fall back asleep. The last few days had felt like a fairy tale, like he had stumbled in to a world not his own and at any moment, he could be yanked out of the story and back into his own mundane life. A moment like this with Sherlock might never come again and he wanted to appreciate the silence and stillness and the feel of Sherlock’s hand at his waist and his hair tickling John’s nose.

“Go back to sleep, John” said Sherlock after a few minutes. His voice was a velvety whisper than wrapped around John more thoroughly than the silence had. “It’s still dark. You can relax.” Sherlock slid his hand up to John’s back, rubbing up and down his spine before pulling him in tight so their bodies were nearly flushed together. Then he let go and curled in as tightly as he could to John.

John drifted off sleep Sherlock breathing deeply into his chest.

The next time John woke, sun was pouring through the windows, nearly blinded him. The snowstorm of the previous few days left everything covered in sparkling white which seemed to be magnifying the light coming in through the window.

Sherlock was still asleep, now clinging to John’s back. John must have rolled again in the night and Sherlock followed him so that they were both on the edge of the bed, pressed together front to back.

John lay there for a while, tracing over Sherlock’s fingertips and knuckles. His hands were soft, and his fingers were long and John was more than a little obsessed with them.

Eventually, John began to turn slowly, wanting to see Sherlock’s sleeping face. As John settled on to his other side, he saw Sherlock peaking at him with on eye opened just a slit.

“Merry Christmas,” said John.

“Mmmphf,” said Sherlock, closing his eyes and ducking his head under the covers and closer into John’s chest.

John just let Sherlock burrow and pressed a quick kiss into Sherlock’s hair. He felt Sherlock shift under the covers and then he was kissing John’s chest. 

“Sherlock,” said John but he just kept going. “Sherlock,” he repeated more insistently. “Do we have time for this? As much as I’m loathed to ask this, don’t we have to get out of bed at some point and join you’re family?”

“We have loads of time,” said Sherlock. “We don’t have to be there until nine.”

John turned again, reaching for his phone while Sherlock moved on to pressing kisses into John’s shoulder blades.

“Sherlock,” said John. “It’s 9:15.”

Sherlock froze for a moment and then leapt out of bed, throwing off the covers and rampaging around the room looking for clothes. 

In the time it took John to find a fresh sweater in his suitcase, Sherlock was already dressed in yesterday’s clothes. 

“Go down to the sitting room as soon as you’re ready,” Sherlock was saying as he looked around the room for his left shoe. “Don’t wait for me. Mycroft is already suspicious enough of us as it is. We don’t need to do any thing else to draw his attention.” 

Those words knocked John off the cloud he’d been floating on since last night and he came crashing back down to earth. Of course, it was a one time thing. Of course, Sherlock wasn’t looking for anything more than a casual fling with John. And even if he were, of course, the Prince of Aldovia couldn’t go getting involved with just anyone. 

Sherlock finally found his left shoe and put it on. Then he turned to properly look at John. “I’m sorry for rushing off like this,” he said. “Christmas day is terribly busy for us. We have a quick family gift exchange but then we have to get ready for the Christmas address in the afternoon and the ball tonight. I should have mentioned when I invited you for Christmas at the palace, I would be busy much of the time.”

“That’s ok,” said John. “I understand.”

Sherlock gave him a long, searching look before leaning down to press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

John dress quickly and made his way to the sitting room. Violet, Mycroft, and his wife were already seated around a low table covered in Christmas presents. Coffee and tea and an already picked over tray of cinnamon rolls were on a table.

When John entered, he was greeted with a cheerful “Merry Christmas” from Violet who handed him a plate of Cinnamon rolls and directed him to sit on the sofa. Sherlock came in a few minutes later and sat about as far away from John as he could while still sitting on the same sofa. 

Mycroft glanced up from his phone at Sherlock’s entrance and raised an eyebrow at him meaningfully.

They exchanged gifts as Christmas carols played in the background. John was touched to see that everyone had thought to give him a gift as well. As the mountain of presents dwindled down, John had acquired enough glass baubles and wooden ornaments to trim an entire tree. He was still nervous to give his gifts, but he was glad that he at least had something to give to express his appreciation for his warm, yet bizarre welcome into the royal family. 

He gave Violet and Matilda their gifts first. He’d found stall selling hand knitted mittens with incredibly intricate designs of snowflakes, mountains, reindeer and trees. He gave a red and white pair to Violet and a green and white pair to Matilda.

“These are beautiful!” exclaimed Violet. “Thank you, John!”

Matilda looked about ready to open her mouth when Mycroft spoke over her. “Very nice. Matilda will appreciate these.” Matilda shut her mouth and nodded, smiling. 

Mycroft opened John’s gift next. John couldn’t help but keep half an eye on Sherlock’s expression as Mycroft pulled the paper away. John had gotten him a €5 mug from a tourist shop in the village. It depicted the palace with Aldovia’s highest mountain and the most picturesque of the villages houses in the background. 

Mycroft sniffed and set the mug delicately on the table. “Too kind, John.”

Sherlock snorted and sneaked a glance at John, grinning. 

“You should use it,” said Violet, taking the mug and filling it with coffee before handing it back to Mycroft.

“I shall treasure it always,” said Mycroft, with an oily grin which shifted to a grimace as he sipped his coffee.

The last two presents left on the table were Sherlock’s and John’s. Sherlock handed his gift to John, a small box wrapped in gold paper and took his gift from John off the table, still in the gift bag from the shop. 

“You first, John,” said Sherlock, softly. 

John opened the box and pulled out another ornament. It was a gingerbread house but as John looked more closely, he realized it was familiar. Then he noticed the police tape across the door and a figure in the upstairs window. It was gingerbread depiction of the crime scene that Sherlock had taken John to on the first night they met.

“It lights up,” said Sherlock. He reached over to flip the battery switch on the bottom, brushing his fingers against John’s. John felt a current of electricity between the two of them that could have probably lit up the ornament without the battery.

Light glowed from the upstairs window and standing just in front of the window was the figures of Sherlock and himself, standing close together as though they were talkin.

John looked at the gift, stunned for a moment. Then he burst out laughing.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Sherlock, moving quickly from confused to angry.

“How on Earth did you have this made in a single day?” asked John, still laughing.

“Being a prince has it’s perks,” said Sherlock, his eyes narrowed.

John looked at Sherlock and the thunder cloud brewing in his eyes. “It’s perfect,” he said quickly. “Thank you.”

Sherlock’s face immediately softened, and a look of relief spread over his face. John suddenly wanted nothing more in the world to hug him or kiss him or even just to take his hand and reassure him that he’d given the best gift, and the most perfect reminder of their time together, that he could have. 

Instead, he said, “Open yours.”

Sherlock opened his gift, a soft navy blue, knit scarf. 

“The one you wore the other day didn’t really seem warm enough for trapsing around the snow,” said John.

Sherlock was staring down at the scarf, running his longer fingers down the lines of knitting. The ends of the scarf were decorated with a pattern of pine trees, knit in black yarn that was only visible when viewed up close.

“It’s lovely,” said Sherlock, softly.

Everyone else in the room was openly watching them and John felt suddenly in the spotlight. Just at that moment, Mrs Hudson came in. “Hair and makeup are here,” she said. 

“Oh, good,” said Violet, standing and making her way out of the room. Mycroft and Matilda followed behind her. 

That left Sherlock and John alone in the room, sitting together on the sofa. 

“I should go,” said Sherlock, standing. “You can make yourself at home. You know where the library is or your welcome to explore the grounds or the sitting room and music room are open to you-“

John stood too and reached out to take Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock stopped talking and looked down at him.

“Your present really was perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever received anything as thoughtful,” he said and took a step closer to Sherlock. Sherlock took a step forward as well so John tilted up and pressed his lips to Sherlock. It was just like the previous night, the tension draining away from Sherlock as John’s lips moved over his. 

Sherlock pulled away far too soon, looking a little dazed. “I need to- the Christmas address.”

“I know,” said John, smiling.

Sherlock left the room, the scarf still clutched in his hands.

Despite knowing, as an absolute certainty that whatever was happening between him and Sherlock certainly and definitely had a time limit, John couldn’t deny the warm bubble of hope that formed in his heart. 

John spent the rest of the morning in the library, reading by the fire. Mrs Hudson came to fine him around just after noon to tell him there was lunch in his room and the royal address would be broadcast soon. As John passed one of the large windows on the first floor on the way back to his room, he looked out and saw a sea of reporters in front of the castle steps. 

Back in his room, he flipped on the tele and waited until he heard the Aldovian National Anthem play, announcing the start of the address.

John felt an odd feeling of displacement as he saw the building that he was currently sitting in, and the people he’d exchanged Christmas presents with, live on television. Mycroft was at the front of the group behind a podium, bearing the Aldovian seal. Sherlock, Violet and Matilda stood behind him. 

John’s eye was immediately pulled to Sherlock. His curls were slicked back into shiny waves. John supposed the hairstyle was more respectable, but he felt that the hairstylist had entirely missed the point in Sherlock’s hair in trying to control it. John was touched to notice that Sherlock was wearing the scarf that John had given him that morning, the dark blue contrasting with Sherlock’s pale skin in the bright sunlight.

Then John noticed that Violet was also wearing the mittens he’d given her. She wore a black, no nonsense coat and a red scarf but the mittens added just a touch of whimsy to her ensemble. 

The speech began and Sherlock tried to pay attention as Mycroft talked about the year in the lives of the Aldovian people and the royal family, but his attention kept skating back to Sherlock. His eyes kept flitting back and forth and John imagined he was deducing things about the gathered reporters to keep himself entertained. 

As Mycroft enumerated the royal families many good deeds throughout the year, photos and videos of the family meeting with everyday Aldovian citizens flashed across the screen. In most of these, Sherlock was standing, bored, in the back of the group. But in one video of Mycroft meeting with a group of police officers, Sherlock was in the background, clearing investigating something in an evidence bag as two police officers stood by. 

The speech ended with the royal family and the assembled crowd singing “Joy to the World”. In the distance, just a few seconds before what was being broadcast on the tele, John could hear the actual voices singing outside the palace. 

After the address, John went for a walk in the grounds, winding his way through the snow-covered ornamental gardens. He made his way back to his room as the sun was beginning to set over the pine trees.

In the hall outside his room, he came across Mrs Hudson. “Oh, there you are, dear,” she said, breathlessly. “Sherlock sent something up for you. I laid it out in your room.” Then she was off in a rush again.

John went into his room and saw a beautiful suit laid out on his bed. The jacket and trousers were cut perfectly for him and there were even cuff links with his initials on them, laid out in a little box next to the jacket. Again, John wondered how Sherlock could have gotten a suit with his exact measurements made in such little time.

He smiled as he ran a hand over the jacket and then set about getting ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will be another two or threes days until I can publish the next chapter most likely. Ooh, but the next ones going to be a good one! I'm already working on it because I have some PLANS for these two!


	6. A Christmas Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to the Christmas party and gets quite a surprise. And there's a murderer! John, it's Christmas!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years! Here's the last chapter of 2020! Never fear, the next chapter is done and ready to go up tomorrow

The ball had already begun when John arrived. A small orchestra was situated at one end of the large room, playing vaguely Christmasy music. Dancers moved through the centre of the room, spinning, and swaying in a way that John could never hope to replicate.

He stood uncertainly near the door for a few minutes, realizing the only people he knew were the royal family and they were likely to be too busy for John to be hanging on to all evening. He walked around the edge of the room, looking for an out of the way spot to watch the dancers.

He passed behind Matilda, talking animatedly to a woman who looked somewhat familiar, as he circle the room.

“So, you see, Prime Minster Lecoq, the country needs to invest in infrastructure and public programs. It will provide us with more jobs which will in turn, allow for more workers to frequent stores and restaurants which will in turn yield more jobs."

“I agree with you, ma’am,” said the Prime Minister. “It’s only a matter of selling the idea to parliament. But if we have the backing of the royal family, it would certainly help.”

John kept moving, not wanting to interrupt what seemed to be an important conversation. He found a spot at the edge of the room and settled in to watch the dancing and listen to the music, hoping just to say hello to Sherlock at some point during the evening.

He scanned the crowd and saw Matilda talking animatedly to Violet. Mycroft was in a prominent position on the other side of the room, saying hello to an endless stream of guests. Then he saw Sherlock.

It seemed he had been standing near his brother, but he was already making his way across the room and through the dancers to John.

“Merry Christmas,” said John, looking up at Sherlock. Because Sherlock was looming again, pressing into John’s space as much as he could without crossing the boundaries into ‘inappropriate in public’.

“Merry Christmas,” said Sherlock. “You look nice.” He took John’s hand, twisting it slightly to look at the cuff links. Then he gave it a slight squeeze before letting it go.

“Thanks,” said John. “It’s all down to you though. This suit is absolutely perfect. I should pay you back.”

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock. “It was a gift.”

“Well, thank you,” said John. They lapsed into silence, their eyes still locked. John was beginning to feel that magnetic pull that he felt somewhere in his ribcage every time Sherlock looked at him with his undivided attention.

A server with a tray of champagne flutes passed by and Sherlock plucked the remaining two off the tray, handing one to John.

“Thank you,” said John. “To the best Christmas I could have imagined having.” He clicked his glass against Sherlocks and then raised it to his lips.

Sherlock’s hand darted forward, lightning fast and grabbed John’s wrist roughly. “Don’t drink,” he whispered. He pulled on John’s wrist, forcing the glass away from the wrist. “Look at the glass, John.” Sherlock’s eyes were darting around the room.

John looked at the glass and noticed a line of white powdery film running from the lip down into the bubbling, golden champagne.

“Poison,” said Sherlock, stepping closer to John and leaning in to speak into John’s ear.

“Are you sure?” asked John. “The glass could just be dirty.”

“Mrs Hudson would never allow a glass to leave her kitchen in that state.”

“But poison, Sherlock? Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “Hold both these glasses but do not drink. Stay here. I’ll be back.” Sherlock shoved the other glass into John’s fingers and took off across the room. John saw him stop and exchange a few words with Mrs Hudson before the crowd obscured Sherlock from view.

A few minutes later, Sherlock returned. “Come on,” he said. He retrieved his glass and put a hand on John’s elbow. He led him through the room towards the dancing. They passed Lestrade in the crowd and Sherlock slowed down.

“George!” he said, cheerfully. “Would you hold these for us?” John was surprised to see a smile on Sherlock’s face.

“Greg,” said Lestrade. “Alright, give them here.”

John was about to ask Sherlock what he was doing when he felt Sherlock’s fingers intertwine with his own. “What-?” he started to ask, but Sherlock cut him off.

“It’s ok,” said Sherlock, more softly. “Give him the champagne.” John handed over his champagne flute and then, suddenly Sherlock grabbed hold of him and whisked him out on to the dance floor. Sherlock quickly arranged John’s hand on his shoulder when he grappled for placement, and then put his hand on John’s waist. And then they were spinning around the dance floor in a perfect waltz. John was too stunned to know what to do but Sherlock was leading him expertly through the steps, his hands firmly guiding him in the right direction.

The song came to an end with a flourish of violins and Sherlock pulled John close. “I’m sorry for what I’m about to do but please understand that there is a good reason for it,” he whispered in John’s ear.

Then he took a step back, released John and sank to one knee.

A gasp erupted from the crowd and then there was absolute silence. No one moved. John didn’t think anyone even breathed. He certainly didn’t. His heart started pounding as though he’d run up five flights of stairs and he suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

Sherlock reached into his breast pocket to retrieve something that he held tightly in his hand. He looked up to John’s face. His eyes were red rimmed making the blue even more vivid and there where honest to God tears gathering at the corners.

“John,” said Sherlock in a voice so soft, John wouldn’t have heard it except for the absolute silence in the room. “John,” said Sherlock again, louder. “Will you marry me?”

‘Of course,’ was John’s first thought and he was shocked, knowing that this had to be fake, that Sherlock was up to something, that they’d only known each other for four days for God’s sake, by his reaction. Everyone was looking at him. Sherlock was looking at him with the most hopeful, tearful expression on his face. John’s knees were shaking and there was a lump forming in his throat but his hand was steady.

“Yes,” said John. Sherlock leapt up from his kneeling position and he wrapped his arms around John. The crowd around the erupted in to cheers. “I needed a distraction,” whispered Sherlock in John’s ear. “You played a long brilliantly. Just keep it up.” Then he leaned back, wrapped his long-fingered hands around the back of John’s head and kissed him.

And John couldn’t even enjoy it. His mind was spinning, trying to figure out what Sherlock was doing. This obviously connected to the poison in some way, but John couldn’t see how. He gently disentangled himself as soon as he reasonably could, and Sherlock let him go easily. John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s chest, and he felt Sherlock’s hands come down and press in to his shoulders. Then John pulled away completely and turned to look at the crowd.

The onslaught was immediate. People rushed forward with shining, happy faces wanting to shake his and Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock had a wide smile plastered on his face. He wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders and pulled him tight to his side. Sherlock seemed to be the one stable point in the mass of humanity around them, so John leaned in to his side, grateful for the support though he was more than a little angry and confused by the whole situation.

After what seemed like an hour, but was probably only a few minutes, of accepting handshakes and congratulations, Sherlock began moving them through the crowd. John felt an unfamiliar weight on his left hand. He looked down and saw the ring on his finger. Sherlock must have slipped it on at some point during the madness. It was a bit too big and spun around John’s finger.

John looked up at Sherlock and caught his eye. Sherlock gave him a small nod. “Excuse us for just a moment,” he said as they made their way to the edge of the crowd. Sherlock pulled John through a door into the kitchen. He kept a tight grip on John’s hand and pulled him through the kitchen and out into a service corridor.

The corridor was empty, so John took his moment. He dug in his heels and pulled Sherlock to a halt. “Please explain, and it had better be fucking good, what the hell just happened?” he said in an icy, low tone through gritted teeth.

“I will,” said Sherlock. “But first, let’s meet our assassin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this a few chapters ago but only two or three chapters to go from here! I'm on track to finish before the end of the 12 Days of Christmas.


	7. A Christmas Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock explains everything.

Sherlock took off down the corridor. John stood still for just a moment, debating whether he should follow or just go back to his room, pack his bag, and leave. But it really wasn’t much of a decision. He jogged down the corridor, catching up with Sherlock, just as he pulled open a door. 

A man was sitting in the middle of a storage room, surrounded by shelves piled with bags of pasta and flour. His forearms tied to the armrests of the chair he sat in and a uniformed police officer was sitting nearby, keeping her eye on him. DI Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, were standing to the side, talking. On the self-nearest them, sat the two offending champagne flutes.

“Is this our man, Lestrade?” asked Sherlock.

“We believe so,” said Lestrade. “Mrs Hudson here says she does not remember hiring him. We’ve looked through payroll information as well and his name doesn’t appear.”

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock dear,” said Mrs Hudson, wringing her hands. “I should have been paying better attention to the staff leaving the kitchens.”

“It’s quite alright,” said Sherlock. “It was your attention to detail that tipped me off in this case.” 

“Oh, Sherlock! What are you talking about?” wailed Mrs Hudson.

“I know you would never let a glass leave the kitchen looking anything less than spotless so when I saw debris on the glass, I knew something was amiss. Lestrade,” said Sherlock, turning to him. “Have samples been taken from both glasses?”

“Yes,” said Lestrade. “They’re on the way to the lab now. We’ll let you know when we have the results.”

“Both the glasses will contain the poison,” said Sherlock. “John certainly wasn’t the intended victim in this case. He was trying to poison me but he was not afraid of causing some collateral damage.” 

“It was worth it,” said the man, tied to the chair. “You would have deserved it and so much the better if someone you cared about got hurt too.”

“Why?” asked Sherlock, turning on the man, his voice going icy.

“Is it because he’s in line for the throne?” asked Lestrade.

“Of course not,” said Mycroft who was standing in the doorway, having just entered the room. He closed the door softly behind him. “This man is Martin Tregennis. Sherlock assisted in the arrest of his brother, Mortimer, several years ago. Mortimer was accused of killing his fiancé if I remember correctly.”

“Wife,” said Sherlock. 

“He didn’t though!” yelled Martin.

“I’ll think you’ll find that he did,” said Sherlock. “Don’t worry. You’ll be joining him soon enough. If you’re lucky, they might even let you share a cell.” 

Sherlock swept up the two champagne flutes before striding out of the room. “Come on, John,” he called over his shoulder.

John looked around the room and then followed Sherlock. They wound through the back passages and stairways of the palace until they emerged in the families private quarters. Sherlock continued tearing through corridors with John on his heels until he arrived a large oak door. He quickly unlocked it and threw it open.

They were in a large, grand sitting room and every single surface was covered in clutter. A skull sat on the mantle and an ornate slipper filled with cigarettes was sitting in the middle of the coffee table. On the wall was hung a large deer skull with a full rack of antlers and an old pair of headphones positioned over its head. 

Sherlock was already sweeping through another door and down a short corridor. John followed him into what must have been intended as a study. It had large windows and floor to ceiling bookshelves. A work top had been placed along one wall that was clearly not part of the original design of the room. Sherlock set the champagne flutes down on the worktop and began pulling out beakers and test tubes and burners. 

“Sherlock,” said John. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him but kept pulling things out of drawers and cabinets.

“Sherlock!” said John again. He grabbed hold of Sherlock’s forearm and held him still, forcing him to turn to face him.

“John, I need to start my analysis of the poison. I allow Mr. Tregennis to go free because the technicians at the lab can’t do a simple analysis.”

“No,” said John, holding tighter to Sherlock’s arm. “That can wait five minutes. Right now, we need to talk, and you need to tell me what the hell all that was.” 

John found that he was panting, and his voice was a bit higher and a bit louder than he’d intended it to be. It seemed to get Sherlock’s attention though because he finally focused his eyes on John’s face.

“There was a murder at the ball. He nearly poisoned both you and me. But he’s in custody now and- “

John cut him off. “I know all that,” he said. “What the hell was this about?” He raised his left hand that still bore the too large ring on his fourth finger.

“For that, I apologize,” said Sherlock. He reached out and gently took John’s left hand and slid the ring from it. “I should have been paying more attention to my surroundings, but I was,” he paused for a moment. “I was distracted. I didn’t get a look at Mr. Tregennis’s face and there were several servers of the same height and hair colour there tonight. I needed to orchestrate an event that would hold everyone’s attention except the murderer. He would see that commotion as a chance to escape, which he did, while everyone else would stop everything to watch. Especially given that it has long been supposed that I would be unlikely to ever get engaged.”

“You could have thought of something else,” said John. “Anything else.”

“I didn’t have time,” said Sherlock, turning away from John back to his workstation. 

“And the ring?” 

“Mycroft’s,” said Sherlock. “I’ll make sure he gets it back. Now, I need to work on this analysis. It will take some time and I’m sure it won’t be interesting to you.”

“I’m staying,” said John, forcefully. The last thing he wanted to do at that moment was let Sherlock out of his sight and into the path of more avenging siblings. John settled himself in an armchair by the window. He watched Sherlock pulling on protective gloves and goggles and begin measuring out liquid from the glasses. Every so often, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John as though wondering why he was still sitting here. Watching Sherlock work was unexpectedly soothing, and he began to feel his anger at Sherlock draining away. Yes, there was probably another way Sherlock could have handled the situation and yet, John couldn’t think of one. And he couldn’t deny that Sherlock’s way had worked.

John eventually dozed off but was woken by the feeling of a hand on his knee. Sherlock was kneeling in front of John’s chair, shaking his knee gently. John smiled lazily at Sherlock and stretched in the chair, arching his back to get the kinks in his shoulders out. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Just after two,” said Sherlock.

“Was it poison?”

“It was.”

The looked at each other for a few moments and then Sherlock cleared his throat. “You may as well get some sleep in an actual bed,” he said. “Mine’s just in the next room. I won’t be in for a while yet. I need to call Lestrade and give him my information.”

“Ok,” said John. He was not particularly interested in walking through the maze of corridors back to his room when he could stay right here. And, though the danger seemed to have passed, he still wanted to keep Sherlock as close as possible.

He followed Sherlock down the hall and into the room he pointed out. In comparison to the sitting room and the study, Sherlock’s bedroom was as neat as a pin. The bed was made, and the surfaces were clear of clutter. The room was decorated in the same ornate style as the rest of the rooms in the palace had been. But the bed was a simple four poster in dark wood with a grey duvet and sheets. 

John pulled off his clothes and crawled under the covers. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was a poster of the period table of elements hanging on the wall.

He woke sometime later to darkness. There was movement in the room and John tensed until he realized it was just Sherlock. Several seconds later, John felt the cover lift and Sherlock get in to bed with him. At first, Sherlock lay still on his side of the bed. John waited a few moments but when it seemed Sherlock wasn’t going to be moving any closer, John reached out a hand. He felt Sherlock’s elegant wrist and stroked a finger up and down and long the fragile bones in the back of Sherlock’s hands.

In a flurry of movement, Sherlock rolled to his side, wrapping his arms and legs around John and burying his nose in John’s neck. “Is this ok?” he asked, his voice muffled by John’s shoulders.

John brought a hand around to rub up and down Sherlock’s back. “It’s fine,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll be a few days before I get the next chapter out but we are in the home stretch!! Happy New Years!


	8. A Christmas Press Conference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course, people are are going to talk about the proposal and of course, the press is going to want to know more about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! And it is written and ready to be posted. If you've stuck with me this long, thank you! This has been a really enjoyable part of my Christmas season this year and I hope you've enjoyed it too!
> 
> PS I would have had this up last night but apparently Ao3 broke last night so I couldn't post it. So, chapter in the morning and chapter in the evening so I can finish this fic by the end of the 12 Days of Christmas like I said!

The bed was empty when John woke. John tried not to take the emptiness personally, tried not to let it in. But the warm glow that had been growing over the last few days was shrinking down in to a small, cold, black pit and the space that had been left behind felt empty and gaping. Tomorrow John would leave, and he would never see Sherlock again.

Eventually, he got out of bed, found his clothes, and made his way back to his room. He spent the morning fiddling with his phone, scanning through the books on the shelves and staring out the window. Around noon, Mrs Hudson came in with another sandwich. “The king and the prince are going to make a public statement soon,” she said. “You may want to watch it, dear.”

“Thanks, Mrs Hudson,” said John. He flicked on the TV and picked at his sandwich until the Aldovian Royal crest filled the screen and a blare of trumpets pulled his attention with laser focus. 

Mycroft and Sherlock were standing on a low platform at the far end of a briefing room that had to be somewhere in the palace judging by the overly ornate moulding on the wall. Mycroft was behind the podium again and Sherlock was behind him at his shoulder. But unlike the last address John had watched where Sherlock was barely contained restless energy, Sherlock was entirely still. His eyes were trained down on the ground in front of him and his lips were pressed together into a thin line. 

“We appreciate the presses attendance at this last minute conference to address the events at last night’s Christmas Ball. A would be assassin was apprehended after attempting to poison the Prince. He has since confessed. No one was injured and the alleged attempted murdered is now in custody. At this point, there is no evidence of any co-conspirators. We now have time for a few questions.”

The shouting of the reporters roared out of the speakers, making John cringe.

Mycroft quickly pointed to someone in the second row.

“Tina Peterson, Aldovian Times,” she said, standing. “There have been rumours of a proposal by the Prince. Would you comment on that?”

“The Prince acted quickly to capture the would be assassin and minimize any injury to the guests of the party. He orchestrated the faux engagement to keep the guests and servers in the ballroom while the assassin was apprehended.”

“We heard it was a bloke!”

“Is the Prince gay?”

“Who was it?” 

Mycroft glared and the room fell silent. He waited to make sure the silence would hold. Then he spoke slowly and softly. “The person in question is an acquaintance of the Prince. The engagement was not binding and is not proceeding forward. The Prince has assured me that he has no plans to continue a relationship with this person going forward and the entire event was simply a diversion in to allow for the capture of the assassin.”

John felt a crack somewhere behind his sternum at Mycroft’s words but the tiny, incandescent spark was still there, glowing brightly, and would be until he heard those words from Sherlock’s lips. John stared at Sherlock. His face was blank, his eyes still fixed on the floor and a small crease was forming between his eyes. John couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t tell if the sentiment Mycroft relayed really came from Sherlock or if it had been forced on him.

The press conference came to an end in a cacophony of reporters and the screen switched to a news studio where two reporters were analysing the events related by Mycroft and speculating about John. His picture flashed up on the screen and John felt queasy. 

John reached for his phone and opened his texts without thinking. Then he realized that he’d never actually texted with Sherlock, so he went to his contacts to find the entry Sherlock had made there. 

“Are you ok? Can we talk?” John typed and sent it before he could rethink it. He sat and stared at his phone for a few seconds, hoping to see Sherlock’s response pop up right before his eyes. When it didn’t, John stood and began pacing the room, his phone in his hand. He kept checking the phone every few seconds. He forced himself to wait, to try and distract himself. Sherlock was certainly busy, and it didn’t mean anything that he hadn’t texted back.

John managed to wait for almost an hour before he left and began roaming the palace. He checked the family’s quarters where he’d eaten dinner with them and opened presents with them. He checked the music room and the ballroom. He even checked the kitchen where he’d first met Sherlock. He saw no one save a few servants who nodded to him and then averted their eyes.

Eventually, John gave up and went to Sherlock’s room. He knocked on the door and then tried the handle. When he had no response, he decided to wait. He stood by the door and then leaned on the door and finally slid to the floor and sat with this back against Sherlocks door. He focused his eyes on a spot on the wall and let his mind drift, trying so hard to think of nothing that eventually, there were no thoughts passing through his mind.

When he heard footsteps coming down the hall, it must have been hours later because the sky outside the windows was dark. John leapt to his feet, swaying slightly on his stiff legs. Sherlock came sweeping around the corner and then stopped dead when he saw John.

“John,” he said, blinking at him. 

John took a few involuntary steps forward, reaching out for Sherlock’s hand or arm. Sherlock shrunk back and John pulled his hand back like he’d been shocked.

“Come in,” said Sherlock, stepping around John and unlocking the door. 

John followed Sherlock into the room and stood awkwardly near the door. Sherlock was on the other side of the room. He picked up a stack of paper and was looking through them, putting them back down on the desk apparently at random. 

When it seemed that Sherlock wasn’t going to break the silence, John cleared his throat. Sherlock looked at him and set the papers down.

“Sherlock, what-“

“John, I-“

They both stopped talking again. John hadn’t known what he’d been about to say except he couldn’t stop hearing Mycroft say Sherlock didn’t want to pursue any kind of relationship with him. “Go ahead,” he said.

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it. Then he opened it again and said, “It’s been a pleasure getting to know you but it is clearly in everyone’s best interests if we go our sperate ways tomorrow.” His voice was oddly formal, and it was breaking John’s heart.

John nodded and he could feel his throat muscles working as he swallowed down the knot in his throat.

“Is that what you really want?” he asked, his voice soft and rough.

“I think it’s for the best, John.” 

“So, I’ll just go, shall I?” said John. He suddenly needed to not be in this room anymore. He didn’t know why Sherlock was doing this, but he already knew him well enough to know he wasn’t going to change his mind if it was set on something.

John was stopped with his hand on the door handle. Sherlock was holding on to his arm, his grip like an iron vice. John was forced to turn and look at Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s eyes were wide pools and John’s breath hitched as he looked into them.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock.

Suddenly, John felt the urge to punch Sherlock in the nose. Why was he holding John here yet keeping him at arm’s length? If he wanted John to leave, if he wanted to pretend the last few days hadn’t happen, then why was he making it more difficult for John to go?

“What for?” he bit out.

Sherlock looked taken aback. He released John’s arm and backed up a step. “For being you. For being kind to me.”

“This,” John pointed between the two of them, waving a finger in the negative space. “This doesn’t have to end. You are the one ending it.”

“It does though,” said Sherlock. His voice was quiet when John’s was loud and the difference was infuriating John further. 

“Fine,” said John. “Have a nice life then.” He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him. It wasn’t until he was back in his room and some of the anger had seeped out of him that he wondered what had caused Sherlock to say those things and act that way. ‘What ifs’ and ‘Maybes’ swirled around his head but in the end, he kept coming back to Sherlock wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want to do. Maybe he was torn on kicking John out but on some level, he must have thought their relationship or friendship had gone as far as it could.

John barely slept that night, and a car was waiting for him early the next morning to take him to the airport. Just after noon, he was back in London, walking through rain soaked streets back to his flat. He opened the door and looked around the cold, grey room. It felt comically simple and drab compared to the palace. He stood in the centre of the room for a very long time before he finally stepped into the small kitchenette to boil the kettle for a cup of tea.


	9. A Christmas Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years everyone but to John and Sherlock most of all! 
> 
> Welcome to the last chapter. I hope you like it!
> 
> (mwahahaha i got it done just under the wire of the deadline i set for myself!)

John mostly spent the next few days moping around his flat. He forced himself to spend a few hours each day searching for jobs and filling out applications and he left the flat to go to the shops or get carry out Indian food from across the street but mostly he stayed in his flat and watched crap tele on the tiny screen, sitting on an uncomfortably springy chair in his dull flat. 

Every time his mind wandered, Sherlock’s face floated through his head and he was seized with the urge to text him or Google him and see if there were any new news stories about him that would give John some idea of how he was doing. 

He held off until December 30th at 23:47. He was lying in bed having just woken from a doze and he could have sworn he felt Sherlock’s arm around him. The absence that had been opening up inside him since their last conversation ached with a throbbing pain that felt almost physical and had John curling up on his side, pressing his hand to his ribs. 

He gave up and reached for his phone. On the front page of the Aldovian Times website was a picture of Sherlock from the Boxing Day press conference with a headline that read ‘Missing Prince?’ 

‘Sources close to the Royal Family have reported a noted absence of Prince Sherlock, younger brother of the King, at several events over the past few days,’ John read. ‘The Christmas season is typically a busy time for the Royal Family with charity appearances, balls, dinners and gatherings. But Prince Sherlock has been conspicuously absent since appearing at a press conference following the Christmas Ball. According to our source, who has requested to remain anonymous, this period of reclusion began when the Prince proposed to and then cut ties with one John Watson, a British doctor and ex-soldier. “The Prince has always had trouble with personal relationships, so it makes sense that he’d take this hard,” said our anonymous source.’

John finished scanning the article, which listed the various events that Sherlock should have appeared at, and then slammed his phone down. He was seething at this “anonymous source”, though John had a bit of an idea who it might be. The face of that smarmy bloke, Simon, flashed before his eyes, causing him to see red. But then, John picked the phone back up and looked at the picture at the top of the article again, at Sherlock’s downcast face during the press conference. 

He was on the verge of opening his texts and texting Sherlock when he remembered his last unanswered text and the conversation they’d had after. He put his phone down and laid back down in bed and spent the darkest hours of the night trying to convince himself that he really was better off without Sherlock, out of the public eye and living the life that had been intended for him.

Mike Stamford invited John out for a drink at his local with his wife and a few friends for New Year’s Eve. John accepted because he couldn’t stomach the idea of sitting alone in his flat and listening to London celebrate the new year around him.

They met at the pub at 8pm as one of Mike’s couple friends were new parents and wanted to get back early to let the babysitter go celebrate. John arrived slightly late and a corner table was already filled with Mike’s group. Mike saw him come in and stood to greet him. He slapped John on the back and handed him a pint of beer. 

“Happy New Year!” he said cheerfully.

John took a sip of beer and was struck with a feeling of absolute wrongness. 

“I’m sorry, Mike,” he said, shoving the glass back into his hand. “I’ve got to go.”

“Why?” asked Mike, concern pooling on his face. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t know,” said John. “Yes, I’m fine. But I have something I need to do. I’ll tell you about it later.”

He ran out of the pub and looked around for a cab, but they were all packed. Then he looked across the river to London Bridge Station. He started speed walking. Then he started running. He ran across the bridge, darting around people in their black tie and cocktail dresses. 

As he entered the station, a quick glance at the screen told him a Gatwick train was leaving in two minutes. He ran forward, people yelling at him as he pressed through the crowds. He stepped on to the train just as the doors were closing. 

The train car was nearly empty, and he sank into the nearest seat, panting heavily. Then he looked at his phone. The last plane of the evening headed for Aldovia was leaving at 21:10. He had 55 minutes. He bought the ticket. 

As the train neared the airport, his heart rate gradually began to increase until he was bouncing his heel and feeling queasy. When the train pulled into the station, John was positioned at the doors and he took off like a sprinter at the pistol when they opened. He raced through the nearly empty airport, thanking Christ for the light New Year’s Eve traffic. The security line was short and after a quick race through the terminal, he was at the gate.

He was the last person on the plane, but he made it. 

Two hours later, the plane landed in Aldovia. At security, John thanked Christ again that the UK was still in the EU, at least for the moment. The Aldovian airport was shut down and dark as his was the last plane to land. He raced passed the rest of the travellers to the taxi stand. He was in the taxi, pulling away from the airport by 23:15.

The half hour journey up the mountain to the palace was the longest half hour of John’s life. The dark pine trees outside the window seemed to crawl by. By the time the palace came in to view, John felt like he was going to throw up or cry or punch something but instead, he had to sit still in the back of the car with shaking knees and buzzing hands.

The cab pulled up in front of the palace and John nearly stayed in and told the driver to take him back to the airport. But he got out and watched the cab pull away instead. Then he was standing alone in front of the palace with no choice but to move forward. 

He approached the large, carved double doors and knocked. The door opened and John recognized the footman who had helped him with his suitcase. The footman grinned.

“Doctor Watson,” he said. “It’s nice to see you back. Come in. The family’s upstairs. I’m sure they’ll all be glad to see you.”

The footman walked off quickly, and John had to follow him or be left standing stupidly in the entrance hall. John walked up the stairs and through the winding corridors that he thought he’d never see again. The footman stopped in front of a door and behind it, there seemed to be a party of at least fifty people. John could hear talking, laughter and the sound of clinking glasses. He felt frozen to the spot, his heart hammering in his chest. He looked at the footman.

“Go on,” he said encouragingly.

John opened the door and the entire room fell silent. 

John ignored them all. He was scanning the room for one face. But before he could find Sherlock, Violet approached him.

“John!” she said in a cheerful voice that had a false ring to it. “So lovely to see you!” She threw her arms around him and pulled him in to a hug. Then she turned to face the rest of the room, her arm around his shoulders. “No need to make him feel self-conscious, everyone. As you were.”

Instantly, everyone turned to the people they’d been talking to and began talking again but this time at a furious pitch and with many, no so subtle glances at John. 

Violet leaned in, one hand still on John’s shoulder. With her back to the crowd, the cheer fell from her face, leaving only worry. “He just left in a in an awful mood. He’s been in an awful mood since you left, not that it’s your fault of course. Go after him. He said he was going to his apartment. You know the way?”

John nodded and he was being ushered back out the door. 

He followed the now familiar corridors to Sherlock’s room, walking fast, resisting the urge to run.

He rounded a corner and there he was. 

Sherlock was standing in a shadowy corridor, looking out a picture window at the dark and snowy forest. 

John took a deep breath and began walking towards him.

Sherlock turned at the sound of footsteps in the hall. His face was stony, but his eyes were wide. He took a small step forward as John approached. 

John stopped a few feet in front of Sherlock but even that wasn’t close enough. He looked up at Sherlock’s face. He may have been imagining it but there seemed to be dark circles under Sherlock’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. They probably matched the circles under John’s own eyes.

Sherlock still hadn’t moved as though he was waiting to see what John would do. John suddenly realized he had no idea what to say or how to explain his presence. But his body was screaming at him that he was this close to Sherlock and not touching him.

He reached out a hand and gently touched Sherlock’s fingertips. The moment his skin made contact; Sherlock grasped his hand tight. 

“Sherlock,” said John in a whisper.

Sherlock grabbed the nap of John’s neck and pulled him forward in to a grinding kiss. John’s neck was bent back uncomfortably and John did not care at all about it. He grinned into the kiss and wound his free hand that wasn’t being crushed by Sherlock’s, around Sherlock’s back, pulling him even tighter. 

John would have been happy to just keep kissing and save the talking for the morning, but Sherlock eventually pulled back.

“What are you doing back here?” he asked, softly. He was cradling John’s cheek in his hand and brushing his thumb across John’s chin and lips in a very distracting way.

“I should have thought that was obvious,” said John, still grinning. He leaned up for another kiss. Sherlock kissed him back for a moment but pulled away again quickly.

“Why did you come back?” asked Sherlock again and he looked so thoroughly confused that John couldn’t help but smile.

“To be with you,” said John. Sherlock’s eyebrows rose, threatening to disappear in to his curly, dark fringe.

“But that’s absurd,” he said. “You can’t do that. By forming an association with me, you would give up any semblance of privacy, of a normal life. You must have already seen that, even after our brief acquaintance. What could possibly be worth trading for a life of unscrutinised freedom?”

“You are,” said John, softly. He leaned up to kiss him again, but Sherlock pulled back.

“I’m not,” he whispered.

“Sherlock,” said John, his heart breaking a bit and sending wavers through his voice. Sherlock was receding into himself, his lips set in a line and his eyes downcast. But the hand that was clutching John’s was still held tight as though he couldn’t bring himself to let go. John brought his free hand up to his chest, pressing over his heart. “Sherlock, love. You really are.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed to John’s. He slid his hand up to cup John’s jaw and angled his head to stare directly into his eyes. John felt like Sherlock was seeing into his brain and reading his thoughts in the electrical impulses there. “Have you really thought about this?” he asked. “Have you really considered what this would mean for you?”

“I have,” said John, breathlessly.

“Long distance could be challenging,” said Sherlock, still studying John’s face. “I can come to London a few times a year, but I have duties that keep me here.”  
“I’ll move,” said John. “Surely there’s work for a doctor in Aldovia.”

“Someone could try to kill me again and you could get caught in the line of fire.”

“And I could die in a car accident tomorrow.”

“And there are the royal groupies.”

“I can live with them,” said John.

“And my skull. I won’t give up my skull. And I hate Cluedo.”

“Sherlock.”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for hours on end. Wouldn’t that bother you?”

“Sherlock,” said John again, insistently. “That’s all you and I love you.” The words were out before John realized they were coming but he found he didn’t want to take them back. Sherlock went completely still again, looking over John’s head with the same odd, wide eyed expression. He slowly released John’s hand and wound his hand around John’s back to clutch at his shirt, holding him still.

John waited for a long moment, his hands-on Sherlock’s shoulders, firm but steady and waiting. Eventually, Sherlock looked down at him. “Alright?” asked John.

“I love you, too,” said Sherlock, quietly.

And then they were kissing again. In the distance, John heard muffled cheering as the party down the hall began the countdown to midnight. 

John pulled Sherlock closer and kissed him into the new year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have read all the way to the end, I sincerely thank you. I feel like I have to appologize for any typos, weird formatting and that tasteless Brexit joke but this was just something fun for me to entertain myself with during this most unusual of holiday seasons. I hope you enjoyed it too. And if you noticed any glaring errors that bother you enough to point them out, please do. I won't be offended but I will fix them.
> 
> Happy 2021! May it be infinitely better than 2020!

**Author's Note:**

> So I have the majority of this little wip done. (I'm just getting to writing the fun parts now (mwahaha)). My goal is to have it all posted before the 12 days of Christmas ends but I'll just be posting as I get things done.


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